The Phantom's Opera
by Mongie
Summary: A tiny change in the beginning can make enormous changes later. The story if things had happened a little differently. EC
1. Taking a Name, Losing an Identity

**I don't own the Phantom of the Opera or anything pertaining to it.**

**Many thanks to Bee, Jenn, and Nite, who encouraged me to post this before I thought I would.**

**Chapter One: Taking a Name, Losing an Identity**

He stalked down the hidden passage, angry with the world and angry with himself. He had thought that solitude had hardened his soul, but obviously he had been mistaken. Once again, contact with the outside world had brought it crashing home that he didn't belong in it, and he was amazed to find that it still hurt. He had thought he had distanced himself enough for the ruse not to affect him.

For ten years now he had lived almost entirely in isolation beneath the Paris Opera House. He had almost never left it, never let himself be seen. Other than fetching needed supplies, he had no reason to leave. Even the grim emptiness of the Opera cellars was better than the hell his life had been before he found refuge there.

He had carved himself a kingdom out of the darkness, a haven devoted entirely to his music. Music that sustained him. It was his only way of showing the feelings that he had.

But even his music could not dampen the need for _some_ human contact, and so, after ten years, he had decided to emerge and make himself known, after a fashion. It had seemed a brilliant idea to him—a way to provide himself with all that he needed without resorting to bald pick pocketing. A chance to hone his talents for manipulation.

The Opera House was truly his playground. He knew all of its secrets and moved with ease anywhere within it without the fear of being seen. But he had grown tired of being an invisible observer. He considered the Opera House his domain, his kingdom above ground, so why not exert some control over it?

He had just come from the Manager's Office from delivering his first note to that effect, and he had signed it with his new identity, The Phantom of the Opera, or O.G.—Opera Ghost. All good theaters should have their ghost, and he had decided to step into that role. It was perfect for his purposes.

_Yes_, he thought, _let them follow my demands, slight as they are, and I will make this Opera House the envy of Paris_.

Perhaps he would even permit them to perform one of his own operas—once they learned that this was _his_ Opera House. But he didn't think this would happen right away. He chuckled maliciously as he remembered the look on Lefevre's face as the manager had read the note. The man had clearly been skeptical of its origins; he never had believed in the stories told by the ballet corps.

_No_, the Phantom reasoned, _he will not believe I exist right away, but he will_. The ballet corps and most of the stagehands certainly already believed in him. They were superstitious by nature, and all the tricks he had played on them over the years had cemented his existence into absolute fact in the minds of the theater folk.

But it still felt like a betrayal to actually cast himself into that role.

When he'd assumed the identity of the Phantom, it was as if he himself had died, to be replaced by a legend, a myth, a ghost.

He ruthlessly pushed all regret down; with this identity he could influence everything that went on inside of the Opera House. He would actually have as much or more power than the manager. And as long as he could remain undisturbed to write his music that was all that mattered. It was.

His route back to his lair took him past the chapel, and as he went by he could suddenly hear the sound of muffled sobbing. Curious, he stooped down and peered through a well-hidden peephole into the room, being careful not to make a sound. The room was dark except for a single candle being held by a young girl of ten or so; from her dress she was one of the ballet rats he was constantly playing tricks on. Curious as to why a ballet rat was crying alone in the chapel—they usually ran in packs and were not overly religious—he decided to linger and see what she was upset about. It might be worth knowing, if only for later mischief.

As he watched, the crying girl knelt, and lit another candle on the candle stand above a picture of a man, tears streaming down her cheeks. The candlelight flickered across her face, showing how thin and pale it was, and casting deep shadows under her eyes.

After a few moments of watching her pray in silence, the Phantom was getting ready to leave, when suddenly she spoke. "Father," she sobbed, "why did you have to die and leave me all alone? I miss you so much." Her sobs overtook her for a moment before she could continue, "You promised, Father. You promised when you were in heaven you would send me the Angel of Music, but he hasn't come. Does that mean you don't care about me anymore? Or maybe it was all a lie, and there is no Angel of Music."

The girl began to cry harder, resting her head against the candle-stand, her thin shoulders shaking. Kneeling in the pool of candlelight, she resembled an angel herself, despite the ravages of tears on her face. The Phantom noticed that even while crying her voice was pure and sweet as she spoke. Surprisingly, the Phantom felt a surge of pity towards the girl; she seemed so tiny and alone, someone else who felt the pain of isolation.

On an impulse that shocked him, he called out to her, making sure his voice seemed to come from everywhere at once, "Why do you weep, little one?"

In the chapel, the girl gasped and clambered awkwardly to her feet. She looked around, searching the shadowy corners of the room for who could have spoken. "Who's there? Who is it?"

The Phantom thought quickly for a reply, but she had given it to him herself. "Were you not praying for an Angel of Music?" he asked soothingly, not wanting to frighten her more.

The change these words brought about was astonishing. The girl's face lit up, and she seemed to almost glow with an inner radiance. "You're the Angel of Music?" she asked breathlessly.

The Phantom laughed internally at the thought of anyone calling him an angel—demon was more like it—and answered, "Yes, I'm your Angel of Music."

"Are you here to teach me to sing?"

"Of course, if that is what you want. But first you must tell me your name," he answered, savoring the happiness that illuminated her features. It had been a long time since he had caused anything but shock and fear.

She smiled shyly, "I'm Christine. But what should I call you?"

The Phantom only hesitated a moment before replying, "Just call me your Angel." Once again he was assuming an identity not his own, but this one he didn't mind. He had felt surprisingly little reluctance in revealing himself and committing to give this Christine voice lessons, despite his long habits of solitude and mistrust of other people. Her innocence seemed to call out to him.

The Phantom began Christine's first lesson then and there. He marveled at the purity and feeling of her small voice—when she grew into it, it would be stunning indeed. Christine herself put every effort into the lesson, obeying him instantly and without question whenever he corrected her. As the lesson progressed the sadness eased out of her face, leaving only the salt of her tears behind.

It was only when she grew tired that he reluctantly sent her on her way, cautioning her not to tell anyone about her new lessons. She'd promised immediately and left the chapel, little resembling the desolate girl he had discovered there. He had never brought another person such happiness before, and the feeling thrilled him.

After Christine had left, he stood still in the passage for a moment, replaying the lesson in his mind. Astonishingly he looked forward to the next one. He frowned briefly at the thought and tried to tell himself that it was passing music on to someone that he enjoyed. He wouldn't admit it was the human contact that motivated him, the chance to talk with someone without fear. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts—there was one person who needed to know about his encounter with Christine and what had come of it.

He moved through more secret tunnels until he reached the rooms of the only other person to know of his existence—Madame Giry, the ballet instructor. She had long been his only link to the outside world, and he had other reasons to be grateful to her besides. Sliding open the secret panel, the Phantom slipped into her rooms.

* * *

Madame Giry was writing in her journal when she heard the whisper of cloth on across the wood floor behind her. No one had come through the door. She sat down her pen, capped her bottle of ink, and turned to face the masked man taking a seat in a chair behind her, the slight rustling of fabric the only sound indicating his presence. She surveyed him calmly, "Erik—"

"It's not Erik anymore," came the harsh interruption. "It's the Phantom of the Opera now. I've just come from making my debut." His voice was bitter and harsh.

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. Long ago she had hid Erik in the depths of the Opera House and had watched as he had made it his own. That he had taken his manipulations into the open did not really surprise her. He was too brilliant to be content to stay in anonymity forever.

His face was as inscrutable as ever—he wore more masks than the white porcelain one covering the right side of his face—but he never came unless he had something important to say, so she got up and locked the door. It wouldn't do to have someone walk in on them.

He watched her without comment. She sat back down and stared at him, wondering what he was about. She didn't say anything—Erik would speak when he wanted to, and not before. She had learned that over the years. He was an intensely private person, and even after all this time she was still not privy to most of his thoughts. But, as it turned out, she didn't have to wait long for him to begin.

Across the room he leaned back in his chair, his face mostly in shadow, and steepled his fingers, "I want to know about one of your ballet rats—Christine."

"Christine Daaé?" her tone was surprised. Out of all the things she had expected him to speak of, this was perhaps the last.

In all the years he had been here, Erik had never before shown interest in another person, he did not even inquire much about her daughter, Meg. Erik nodded, and Madame Giry wondered at this sudden change as she answered him, "She's an orphan. Her father was the Swedish violinist, Charles Daaé. He wrote before he died, asking me to take care of her. But why…"

But it became clear that he wasn't going to give her a straight answer. Instead, he stood to leave. "I'm giving her voice lessons now, every evening in the chapel. See that she had no other obligations to meet." He took a step towards the secret panel, then stopped and turned back, "And don't tell her about me either."

Madame Giry turned the information over in her mind. He was giving _voice lessons_ to Christine? "Stop!" she called to him and was a little surprised when he actually paused. She went over and gripped his sleeve, "Erik, what are you doing? Why have you revealed yourself now, after all these years?"

Then his last words sunk in, "She hasn't seen you. You're throwing your voice!" He had learned that trick years ago, using it to scare the ballet corps by seeming to whisper in their ears. Many times she had seen someone stop in the middle of a hallway and look wildly from side to side, trying the find the voice that was whispering to them. She wondered why Christine hadn't been frightened of a disembodied voice, but that could be found out later. The important thing now was to find out what Erik was up to.

He simply looked down at her, his yellow eyes beginning to glimmer with anger. She paid no heed as she continued, "How long is this deception supposed to last, Erik? How long do you think she'll accept being taught by a voice from a wall before she starts asking questions? What will you do when she demands to see you for herself? Think, Erik. Think about what you are doing!" She spoke urgently; she could see no good coming from his strange interest in an orphaned ballet rat. Even after all these years, the urge to protect him was still strong.

Coldly, Erik removed her hand from his sleeve, "She will not question for a while yet. And when she does, maybe she'll have learned to trust the voice enough to trust the man."

Before she could reply he was gone—disappearing through the wall panel he had entered from. She stared at the blank wall for a moment before sinking down into the chair he had just vacated, massaging her temples with her hands, worried about what this change of events might mean. There were so many problems that could come from this. Someone might overhear them, and wonder who the voice from the wall was; her own daughter, Meg, was bound to be curious as to why Christine would leave each day.

But the most serious problem was posed by Christine herself. She might reveal what she was slipping off for each day. And sooner or later she would want to know the man behind the voice.

Erik's motives also worried her greatly. Madame Giry knew Erik as well as anyone could, and if he had revealed himself to her—even if only in voice—he had a reason for doing so besides voice lessons. Madame Giry knew that when Christine met him her reaction could give Erik the acceptance he craved, or it could destroy him.

She didn't know why Erik had fixed his attention on Christine. The girl was an unexceptional dancer, quiet and shy, apt to fade into the background. So how had he noticed her? Before, playing tricks had been about the extent of Erik's interest in the ballet corps, and she didn't know what had made him change his mind. All that she could do was prepare Christine as best she could and pray that Erik was right, and Christine would trust the voice enough to trust the man. She would have to wait for the future to resolve itself.

**To answer a few questions before they get started. Yes, this is a retelling. But I've rearranged things a lot. Purists will probably hate this. I've been writing on this since March, when it was started as a direct response to the movie. I've grown a lot since then, and I hope this story has grown too. The other things I have posted are all fairly short; this story promises tobe massive. It's quite a change for me, and I'm a tad nervous.Thank you for your time! -Mongie**


	2. Interrupted Musings

**Interestingly enough, I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.**

**Chapter Two: Interrupted Musings**

**Eight Years Later**

Christine sighed to herself as rehearsal once again ground to a screeching halt—this time because someone had trodden on Carlotta's dress. She glanced at Meg, her best friend in the ballet corps, and rolled her eyes. Meg grimaced back; she hated Carlotta's theatrics as much as Christine did. Finally the diva stopped berating the unfortunate dancer, and everyone could take their places to begin again.

Christine ran to take her place in the back of the formation. She wasn't the best of dancers, nowhere near the level Meg was. She tried her hardest, but her heart wasn't in it. Ever since she had began her singing lessons…

She shook her head and tried to concentrate, waiting for the signal to begin. It was for reasons like that she wasn't more than an average dancer.

But before Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, could give the signal, Monsieur Lefevre, the manager of the Opera, walked onstage, followed by three other gentlemen.

"Monsieur Lefevre, if you please, we are in the middle of rehearsals!" Reyer sounded harried at yet another delay to the rehearsal. And well he should, tonight was the opening performance of _Hannibal_, the opera they were practicing.

Lefevre inclined his head, "Just a moment of your time, Monsieur Reyer. I have an announcement I'd like to make." He held up a hand for silence and gradually everyone fell silent. When all were quiet he continued, "As you all know, rumors have been flying about of my impending retirement. I would like to confirm that they are true. As of today I am no longer manager of this Opera House." There were a few knowing nods; no one was really surprised. He continued, "I'd like to introduce you to your new managers: Messieurs Firmin and André."

The man he introduced as André stepped forward, "And we would like to take this opportunity to introduce the Opera's new patron, the Vicomte de Chagny." He gestured towards the third man who had kept behind the two new managers, unnoticed till now.

In the wings where she stood with Meg and the other dancers, Christine paled. Meg noticed and asked in concern, "Christine, what is it?"

Christine whispered, "It's Raoul. He—I—we were friends as children. He fetched my scarf out of the sea once." She blushed, then continued, "I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts. I thought I'd never see him again after Father died and I came here."

Meg squeezed her arm, "Really? Childhood sweethearts! Oh Christine, go talk to him! He's handsome, and I'm sure he remembers you."

Christine wanted to do just that, it would be so nice to talk to someone from her past, someone from when her father was alive. But when she looked at Raoul in his fine clothes, the very picture of a fashionable young nobleman, shyness overcame her. She shook her head, "No."

They watched Carlotta be introduced to Raoul. The diva fawned and flirted with him. Inside, Christine was glad to see Raoul didn't seem too impressed with Carlotta. She continued, "It was a long time ago; I'm sure he has forgotten. He's grown up now; he doesn't remember the poor friends he had." She watched as Raoul, having made the minimum of polite conversation, bowed to the managers and left the stage.

Meg turned to her, "But Christine—"

She was interrupted as Carlotta, upset at the lack of attention from the Vicomte and determined to show her dominance to the new management, loudly exclaimed that she was quitting. "Dancing girls!" she screeched, "You all like the dancing girls! I hope the audience likes them too, because I will not be singing!" And she started to stomp off in a flurry of skirts.

Christine and Meg rolled their eyes. They and the rest of the theater crew, including Lefevre, knew this was a bluff; Carlotta loved being in the spotlight too much to really quit. André and Firmin, however, panicked. "What do we do?" Firmin cried anxiously.

Lefevre raised an eyebrow, "Grovel. Just grovel." Christine could see in his face that he was glad he didn't have to deal with Carlotta anymore.

The two new managers fell over each other begging Carlotta to stay. Finally André asked her to sing for them. The diva stopped, clearly flattered and continued to feign reluctance, but Christine knew she wouldn't resist such cajoling. They coaxed her back to center stage and asked Monsieur Reyer to start the aria they'd selected.

Reyer, with a pained expression on his face, cued the orchestra to begin. Christine winced as Carlotta's screechy, high-pitched voice launched into the song. She thought that Carlotta was ruining what was really a rather lovely song. The Angel had just had Christine sing it yesterday—odd how the Angel always made her learn the lead of the opera that was going on at the moment.

Christine allowed thoughts of her Angel to distract her from Carlotta's performance. Her Angel of Music. That was the only name she had for the voice that came to her, that taught her music. He had first come eight years ago, when she was ten. She had just entered the ballet after her fathers' death and had gone down to the chapel to light a candle for him. Christine had been begging her father's spirit to send her the Angel of Music when the voice had called to her.

As a child, Christine had believed the voice when it had claimed to be the Angel sent by her father. But as she had grown older she had realized that her Angel was a man. The pain and emotion present in his voice was all too mortal. Christine believed that her father had indeed sent this man to be her Angel of Music, but he was still only a man.

Carlotta was still singing, Christine set her mind to pondering who this man could be. It was not one of the opera singers—Christine had heard every one of the singers in the Opera House, and not one of them could come close to matching the beauty of the Angel's voice. So, not one of the opera staff, and yet the voice never appeared to come from anywhere. Christine knew the Opera House was riddled with secret passages, and she was willing to bet her Angel was using them. But who had knowledge of the passages? Madame Giry was the most knowledgeable person on the secrets of the Opera House that Christine knew of, but her Angel was a man! In fact, the only person rumored to know all of the passages was—

Suddenly a loud crash onstage interrupted Christine's musings. A large cloth backdrop had crashed down behind Carlotta, enveloping her in its folds. There were cries of alarm from all of the dancers, and Carlotta gave a loud screech.

"He's here, the Phantom of the Opera!" Meg shrieked beside her.

Madame Giry heard her and turned to her, "Do not speak of what you do not know, foolish child! Now stay here." And she disappeared backstage, ignoring Carlotta's plight. Meg and Christine watched her go, and the turned back to the scene unfolding on the stage.

Carlotta finally freed herself from the backdrop and stood up, her face red. André, Firmin, and her crowd of sycophants swirled about her, asking if she was alright.

André called up into the catwalks, "I say, what happened up there?"

A stagehand appeared: Joseph Buquet, a greasy man the Christine had always disliked. He called down, "Don't look at me, Monsieur. Against my better judgment I wasn't at my post. No one was there," his look turned sly, "It must have been a ghost then." Buquet was always telling stories about the Opera Ghost, which were popular among the dancers.

Behind them, Firmin attempted to calm Carlotta down, "These things do happen."

She cut him off, "Oui, these things do happen, but not as often as they happen here! And until you stop these things from happening I will not be here. I quit!" She stormed off, trailing lackeys behind her. For once, Christine thought she might be serious. There was a stunned silence on the stage as the cast tried to absorb the fact that Carlotta had actually quit.

Lefevre took this opportunity to make matters worse by announcing, "Gentlemen, you have your work cut out for you. If you need me, I shall be in Australia." And he was gone. Christine thought he seemed to be moving with unseemly haste, but couldn't fault him for it.

On the tail of this, Madame Giry reappeared quietly and approached the new managers. She gave a brief curtsy, and the Managers responded with nodded heads, still trying to figure out exactly what to do.

"You, Madame, are?" André inquired.

"Madame Giry, Monsieur, the ballet instructor. I have a note for you, from the Opera Ghost."

"Good God, you believe in this lunacy? You expect us to believe in a spectre? What kind of fools do you take us for, Madame?" André exploded.

Madame Giry pretended not to hear him, "He commands that you keep Box Five open for him and respectfully informs you that his salary is due."

André sputtered in outrage, "His salary!" Firmin took the note and was reading it. Christine, Meg, and the rest of the company looked on eagerly, anxious to see how the new managers would react to this bit of the business they'd acquired.

Madame Giry stepped in again, "Monsieur Lefevre paid him 20,000 francs a month. Perhaps with the Vicomte as your patron, you can afford more. You are to put the notes in a sealed envelope and leave it in Box Five."

As André started spluttering again, Firmin suddenly looked up, "God in Heaven! The Gala! We'd planned to introduce the Vicomte at the Gala tonight, but now we have no star! We'll have to cancel, André, we'll have to refund a full house!"

This exclamation drove any thoughts of the Opera Ghost out of André's head, and he violently turned to Reyer, "Surely there is an understudy…"

Reyer shook his head, "No, Monsieur, there is no one."

For the third time Madame Giry's voice cut across the stage, "Christine Daaé could sing it."

All eyes on the stage turned first to Madame Giry, then to Christine. She could feel herself turning red. Even Meg was giving her a strange look. She wanted to melt into the floor. Her music was private, between the Angel and herself. She wasn't good enough to sing in front of all these people.

"A chorus girl?" Reyer exclaimed.

"She has been will taught. Have her sing for you," Madame Giry answered.

"Well, it's worth a try," Firmin said. "Come on Mademoiselle Daaé, let's hear you." He turned to Reyer, "From the beginning of the aria, if you please."

There was nothing she could do, no way to protest, even if she could find the words to. Christine walked forward, conscious of Meg, and everyone else, staring at her in perplexed astonishment. Christine herself had only time to think, _how did Madame Giry know about the Angel and her lessons? _Then the music had started and she began to sing as the Angel had taught her. A minute before, she had been tongue-tied, but, as soon as the music started, she found herself singing almost involuntarily. Caught up in the music, there was no room in her mind for anything but the song. Neither did she see the looks of amazement from everyone as her pure voice rang out over the stage. Christine was lost in the music, singing with all of her passion as the Angel had told her to do.

Then it was over. After the last notes rang out, there were a few moments of silence, and then Christine blinked to find herself surrounded by excitedly chattering people. She herself was trembling from reaction. Never before had she sang in front of so many people, and their apparent approval bewildered her. The new managers rushed up to her, talking over her head. She was also conscious of Madame Giry standing near her, an inscrutable smile on her face.

"Excellent, quite a find! The Gala will not have to be canceled after all!" André exclaimed.

"Madame Giry, get Mademoiselle Daaé a costume and see that she is ready for the performance tonight," Firmin ordered.

Beside her, Meg had run up and was clutching her arm, almost bouncing up and down with eagerness, "Christine! Where did you learn to sing like that? You were wonderful! Who is your teacher? Why didn't you tell me—"

Once again Madame Giry's voice cut through the bedlam—Christine privately thought that nothing in the Opera House would ever be completed without her as the voice of reason—and she gently guided Christine out of the crowd, "I will take care of everything, Messieurs. Now if you will excuse us. No Meg, you stay here and continue to practice."

Christine found herself ensconced in the costuming room in the midst of frantic pinnings and alterations, and, before Christine could get her bearings and ask how she had known about her singing, Madame Giry had departed back to the rehearsal. Christine would have dearly loved to know how the ballet instructor had learned of her lessons, and also why she appeared to know so much about the Phantom.

As it happened though, Christine didn't have much time to continue with her previous musings. As the seamstresses finally released her, frantically working to finish the costumes, Christine rushed back to the rehearsal in order to make sure she knew her part. She had, of course, watched Carlotta many times, but was still nervous about taking over the role herself.

Finally performance time rolled around. Christine was getting ready in the dressing room that had been given to her. She was nervous, about singing alone in front of the audience, about how they would react to her, about how her Angel would react. Since he had taken such an active interest in her singing and always seemed perfectly informed about events in the Opera, he was bound to know about her performance and find some way to be there. Suddenly Meg opened the door; it was time for the performance to begin.

**Thank you to all my reviewers! You guys are the best!**


	3. A Night of Meetings

_I don't own the Phantom of the Opera._

_This chapter is dedicated to everyone who encourages me. The first part of this chapter is dedicated to Bee and Jenn, because they love the physique so much!_

**Chapter Three: A Night of Meetings**

Raoul lounged in his seat in Box Five, waiting for the opera to begin. Tonight he would see just what he had invested in, although if that Carlotta woman was lead singer he supposed he shouldn't be too hopeful. Her exaggerated mannerisms and predatory looks had led him to cut his visit short—he would observe the opera from his seat, where it was safer.

Onstage the curtain rose, and Raoul dutifully clapped with the rest of the audience. The performance started, and it was good, much to his surprise. But when the leading lady entered, Raoul sat bolt upright, startled.

It was clearly not Carlotta, but a younger girl. It seemed odd that they would recast the role so late, but Raoul wasn't complaining. This girl seemed more natural than Carlotta. Raoul peered at her, his box was close enough to the stage that he could see her clearly; she seemed familiar somehow. Something about the thinness of her face, and her wide eyes. But it couldn't be… He grabbed his hither fore unlooked-at program and saw that, indeed it was: Christine Daaé. His Little Lotte; the girl he had fallen in love with as a boy.

He leaned forward eagerly as she opened her mouth to sing and nearly fell off his seat as her voice washed over him—clear and beautiful, almost spiritual.

She sang like an angel.

Raoul couldn't take his eyes off of her. Somehow, something had changed Christine from the thin, painfully shy girl he remembered into the poised and beautiful creature on the stage before him. Just looking at her and listening to her sing took his breath away.

He could barely sit through the rest of the performance. As soon as it was over he hurried off to find Christine's dressing room and make himself known to his Little Lotte once again.

* * *

Christine entered her dressing room, physically and emotionally wrung out from her performance. She had been nervous until she had sung the first note. Then all of the Angel's teaching had flooded back to her, and she had sang as if he had been there coaching her.

As she entered the room, she was greeted with the sight of many bouquets of flowers, gifts from admirers. Christine sighed, it was lovely to know the audience liked her, but the only opinion she really cared about was that of her Angel. What had he thought of her performance?

As she crossed the room to her vanity, she noticed with surprise a single red rose tied with a black velvet ribbon laying there, a stark contrast to the elaborate arrangements surrounding it. Curious, Christine picked up the card under it. It read, in curious, childlike writing, "Angel of Music."

She picked up the rose in wonder. There was only one explanation. Her Angel had been there, and he had approved of her performance. As she stared at it, a knock sounded at the door. Guiltily, Christine quickly sat down the rose and turned around. "Come in," she called.

The door opened, and there stood Raoul, holding a large vase of white roses. Christine gasped, "Raoul!"

He smiled, "Little Lotte."

"You _do_ remember. I thought you would've forgotten," she said delightedly. "But no one calls me Little Lotte anymore!"

He smiled again as he walked forward and handed her the roses. He kissed both her cheeks in greeting and replied, "How could I forget, Christine? All those picnics in the attic, listening to your father's stories."

"And that time you fished my scarf out of the sea."

He grinned now. "That was the first time I met you. I ruined my clothing, and my governess scolded me mostly fiercely about it!"

Christine smiled back shyly. She couldn't believe he was actually here, talking to her. To hide the tumult of feelings his visit was causing, she turned to set the roses down. She moved towards the vanity but stopped. It didn't seem right somehow to put Raoul's gift next to the Angel's, so she moved across the room and put them on a different table. She turned back and looked at Raoul, "I am surprised that you remember me, Raoul. That was so long ago, and we were so young then."

"I could hardly forget you, Christine. Now, come to dinner with me."

Christine hesitated, her Angel was very strict about her leaving the Opera House, but it _was_ Raoul. She had been longing to talk with him again since seeing him earlier. The opportunity was too good to pass up. Catching up her cloak, she agreed and let Raoul escort her out of the room. She cast one last glance back at the rose laying on the vanity, and then she was gone.

* * *

Christine entered her dressing room after dinner, locking the door behind her. She was glad she had her own room now, after having to live in the ballet dormitories for the past eight years. Basking in the solitude, she removed her cloak and changed into a nightgown and robe. Then she sat down at the vanity to remove her hairpins, thinking about dinner.

Raoul had been charming, exactly as she had remembered him. They had talked and laughed together as they used to so many years ago. No, Raoul hadn't changed, Christine mused, but he seemed to think she hadn't changed either. He had treated her as he had treated his Little Lotte—someone to be cared for, cosseted, and indulged like a child. And that, Christine thought, was what had bothered her about dinner tonight; Raoul didn't realize her father's death had caused Christine to grow up.

Momentarily saddened by thoughts of her father, Christine glanced down. The Angel's rose caught her eye, and she picked it and the card up, studying them.

"So, you have returned."

At the sound of the Angel's voice Christine gasped, dropping both card and rose, and turned around, but could not find its source, as usual. He was here, in her bedchamber! Did he have tunnels everywhere? This was the first time she had talked to him outside of the chapel. "Angel?" she said falteringly.

But he continued as if she hadn't spoken, "Did I not tell you never to leave the Opera House without my permission?"

Christine could hear the anger in his voice as she answered, "It was just Raoul; we knew each other as children. I'm sorry, I was just glad to see a familiar face." Ashamed and contrite to have angered him, she looked down at the vanity surface. His rose caught her eye once again. Eager to change the subject to one that didn't make him angry, she continued, "Thank you for the rose."

There was a moment of silence. "A reward for a stunning performance," he replied, the menace gone from his voice. Evidently she was forgiven.

Christine once again picked up the card and the rose, turning it over in her fingers. "Who are you?" she mused, and then her eyes widened as she realized she had spoken out loud. She held her breath, waiting for the Angel's response to her spontaneous question. Every other time she had asked questions about him, they had been met with black anger, but maybe he would answer her this time.

"Your curiosity may someday get you into trouble, Christine, if you are not careful," his voice came, again silky with anger.

Christine gathered up her courage. She was determined to see this through, "Eight years you have taught me, Angel, and I have never seen your face."

"What makes you think I have one?"

Now a little irritated, Christine answered, "I am not the naïve child I was; I know you're a man!"

There was silence. Christine had begun to wonder if she'd gone too far when the Angel answered. The anger was gone from his voice, but it was now almost, predatory, "So you wish to know who I am?"

There was a slight noise behind her, and Christine turned around. The full length mirror that dominated the far side of the room was swinging open, and out from behind it stepped a man. He was dressed in an all black suit of evening clothes. Christine's eyes traveled up him in shock, but then she saw his face and gasped. Half of it was covered by a white mask. She paled and leapt to her feet, knocking over the stool she had been sitting on. In all her imaginings, this possibility had never occurred to her. "You're—you're…"

"The Phantom of the Opera," he finished, "and your Angel of Music, my dear."

Christine swayed a little, "Then you caused all the tricks, the accidents, Carlotta—." She couldn't finish.

"Not all of them, no. I am merely a convenient excuse for most things that go wrong," his tone was bitter, but then his gaze sharpened on hers, "But Carlotta's accident I will take credit for."

"But why?" Christine's voice only trembled a little.

"It was time the managers learned of your talent and replaced that screeching excuse for a soprano." Now his voice deepened as he continued, "Come, my angel, you wanted to know me, and so you will." He took a step forward and extended his hand.

Almost automatically, Christine took a step back, but she ran into the edge of the vanity. Putting her hand down to steady herself, she felt the rose and card, and she remembered why the Phantom of the Opera was here, in her room. She closed her eyes as he said again, "Come to me, angel of music." His dark voice swirled around her, and, without the sight of him clouding her thoughts, Christine had no doubt that this man was her Angel.

The image in her mind—all the fears and stories about the Phantom—disappeared, and when she opened her eyes she saw only her Angel, the voice she had trusted for eight years. She walked toward him and, with no more than a brief pause, placed her hand in his.

_Thank you to everyone who reviewed/squeed/or generally encouraged me for this chapter. You guys give me the confidence I often find myself lacking._


	4. Descent into a Dream

**Once again, I don't own Phantom of the Opera.**

**Chapter Four: Descent into a Dream **

**Thank you Hikari for betaing this! And thank you to everyone else who supported me and encouraged me.**

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_She walked toward him and, with no more than a brief pause, placed her hand in his._

His fingers tightened on hers, and Christine thought she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face, but all he said was, "Come."

Although she was nervous about being this close to him—he towered over her by several inches, making Christine feel very tiny—she willingly followed him through the mirror, curious to see where he was taking her. Strangely, she felt almost no fear, as if she was in a dream.

After they had passed through the mirror and into the tunnel beyond, he stopped and reached across her to swing it closed, leaving them in darkness. She felt him relinquish her hand, and started to protest, but his voice said, "Don't be afraid, I'm lighting a lantern." Willing to trust the voice, if not the man, Christine waited patiently as she heard him pick up something from the floor.

There was the sound of a match being struck, and a light flared, throwing the Angel's face into stark relief and making his eyes glow yellow from the reflected gleam of the flame. Christine's eyes widened as she took in the picture before her: the smooth white planes of his mask contrasting sharply with the dark, angular lines of the visible side of his face. Apprehension surged inside of her. Who was this man who styled himself both the Phantom of the Opera and her Angel of Music? Why was he here in this Opera House? But what preyed upon Christine's mind the most was the white half-mask that covered the right side of his face. She wondered what was under it, but was scared to find out. Yet, because he was her Angel, Christine said nothing as he again took her hand and began to lead her down the tunnel.

The flickering light of the lantern did little to dispel the darkness of the corridor, but the Angel's steps did not falter. Christine took the opportunity to study him. Her gaze took in his gloved hands, black evening suit, and the long black cape that hung from his shoulders, and before moving inexorably to his face. In the faint light, it was the only thing that really stood out from the shadows, making him seem to truly be a phantom. She could barely even make out his hair, which was a dark brown or black.

Suddenly the tunnel came to an end, and they were standing on the edge of an underground lake. Torches lined the wall, and Christine could see that a boat was docked there. She stared in amazement; out of all the things she thought to see under the Opera House, this wasn't one of them. The Angel blew out the lantern, set it down in a niche, and began to lead Christine toward the boat.

Christine let him help her into it, then sat as he began to pole it across the lake. She wondered why he didn't say anything more. He had been silent since telling her he was lighting the lantern. She longed to hear him speak again, to reassure her he was her Angel. For eight years the Angel had been coming to her. He had been her teacher, her inspiration, her anchor—her lessons had been a haven against the loneliness she felt. Meg was really her only friend, and sometimes she had to escape from the cattiness of the other ballet girls. She could sit for hours and let the dark beauty of the Angel's voice wrap around her, and yet this brooding man on the back of the boat seemed a stranger to her. Unsure of what to say, Christine kept silent.

Finally, after a few minutes of poling through the dark water, they came to a narrow neck of the lake. It was into this neck the Angel directed the boat. They rounded the corner, and the way was barred by a rusty, iron portcullis. Christine looked on in bemusement as the Angel touched a hidden switch and the portcullis rose, and they entered into a small grotto.

Christine felt her mouth fall open slightly as she took in the grotto's contents. The lake only filled part of the cavern. The rest had been converted into a living area. Clearly, this was his home. Fine rugs covered the floor and tapestries graced the walls. Sofas and chairs conveyed the impression that this was a sort of parlor area, and Christine glimpsed a doorway leading to more rooms. A massive organ was what dominated the room though; it was set against the back wall and was covered with sheets of music. Candles were everywhere, adding a surreal quality to her surroundings.

The Angel poled the boat to shore and stepped out. He offered her his hand and helped her to her feet. But despite his support, Christine felt the boat shift beneath her, and she tumbled backwards over the side with a small shriek. She shut her eyes, expecting to fall into the lake, but instead she found herself being supported by a pair of strong arms. Cautiously she opened her eyes and found herself staring into the golden ones of her Angel, which were looking down at her with some concern.

Christine blushed—of all the times for her dancer's training and grace to desert her—and stammered, "Oh, err, thank you."

His facial expression did not change, but his voice was warm, "You're welcome." He straightened, scooping her up, and then deposited her safely on shore. Christine noticed that he seemed reluctant to put her down at first, but then quickly relinquished his hold and moved away.

She stared at his back. His manner perplexed her; he seemed both tender towards her and uncomfortable in her presence. It was as if he was nervous, but that was ridiculous. He had taught her, praised her, and chastised her for eight years as her Angel of Music, and haunted the Opera House as the Phantom for at least as many. But she saw how tense he was, and she knew it was true.

Since he didn't seem inclined to start a conversation, Christine asked the first thing that popped into her mind, "Where are we?"

He half turned to look at her, keeping the mask turned away. "My home," was all he said.

Christine eyed the lavish furnishings. This certainly was a fitting lair for the Phantom of the Opera, but that didn't answer the question as to why he lived here. She waited a moment for him to continue, but he remained silent. The silence became strained, and she tried again, "You live here? But why?"

She must have touched a nerve, because he whirled to face her fully. He gestured angrily towards his mask and hissed, "Yes, I live here! I wouldn't fit in with _normal_ society, not with this!"

In the face of his sudden, unexpected anger, Christine paled and took an involuntary step back. His eyes glowed yellow from more than reflected candlelight, and her mind screamed at her to run, she had provoked the Phantom of the Opera, and she needed to get away. But there was nowhere to run, not with the lake at her back. She looked down, unable to hold his gaze, and waited for his next move, for him to speak, to shout, or even to attack her. But he did nothing, and as the moment stretched on Christine could feel the tension in the roomgrow stronger and stronger.

Suddenly she heard a sound of disgust, and she looked up to find that he had moved across the room to stand by the mantel piece, hands gripping it tightly, his cloak discarded on the floor.

Free from his stare, Christine found that she could breathe again. She struggled to regain her composure. Her Angel had gotten angry with her before, but face-to-face the encounter left her shaken. But the Phantom didn't order her back into the boat or indicate that he wanted her to leave; he stayed at the mantel, tenser than before if that was possible. Gathering her courage, Christine took a shaky step forward, "Angel, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you…"

Her Angel flinched, as if she had struck him. Slowly he turned around, "No, don't apologize, little one. My temper is uncertain at best; I should not have yelled at you."

The anger was gone from his voice, replaced by, self disgust? Christine took another few steps closer, and he looked away. She glanced around for something else to say, to keep the conversation going. After this, she was not going to ask him about his name. She needed something safer, and her gaze fell on the organ and its music. "Will you play for me?"

The Angel turned around again and looked her in the eye. All at once, he seemed to have regained his composure as he answered, "Of course, my dear." He walked over to the organ and sat down. Music began to flow out of the instrument, piece after piece—all of Christine's favorites. Lured by the beauty of it, Christine moved closer until she stood next to the organ. Resting her hands lightly on it, she closed her eyes to better listen to the music.

After a while, he paused, then played the opening notes to a song he was teaching her. Christine opened her eyes to find him looking at her, visible eyebrow raised in inquiry. She nodded, and he began to play it again. She took a breath and began to sing. She felt herself begin to dissolve into the song. This was the first time she had ever sung with him accompanying her on an instrument, and the power of it swept her away.

Finally the song ended, and Christine took a shaky breath. That was the best she'd ever sung, and she knew it. She looked at the Phantom, and found him staring back at her, his eyes bright with some unnamed emotion. Quickly she dropped her eyes, focusing them on some of the pages scattered about. "Don Juan Triumphant," she read. She risked a glance back up at him and asked, "Did you write this?"

He nodded, "Yes, but it's not finished yet."

"Can I hear some of it?"

"You will be the first to hear it, when it is finished. I will bring you here and play it for you." Looking down, he began to play again, this time a duet he had taught her.

Knowing this was his way of ending the conversation, Christine surrendered herself to the music. When her Angel's voice joined hers, Christine thought her heart would stop. This was all so overwhelming, and she lost herself in the Angel's voice until it was the only thing she heard.

The end of the song came as a disappointment. She looked at the Angel and asked, "Please don't stop. Sing some more."

As he began again, Christine sat down on the thick rug next to the bench, and tucked her feet up under her. She closed her eyes and listened to the music being played above her. The day's events caught up with her, and she drifted off to sleep. She barely woke up when the music stopped, and she was picked up gently. She murmured, "Angel," and turned her face toward the warm chest carrying her before going back to sleep.

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He let the last notes of the song drift into silence. He looked down and saw that Christine had fallen asleep leaning against the organ bench, her head resting on her arms. His heart constricted at the sight of her, his angel, asleep so trustingly while in his presence. He hadn't missed her initial alarm at her first sight of him, or the flash of fear when he had litthe lantern in the tunnel, and it amazed him that she felt enough at ease to actually fall asleep at his feet.

Gently, he reached down and brushed back a brown curl that had fallen across her face. She didn't move, truly asleep. Getting up slowly, he bent and lifted her into his arms. She stirred, and he froze, waiting for her to wake up and demand that he put her down. But instead she murmured, "Angel," and twisted closer to his body, resting her face on his chest. She didn't move again, once more asleep. Now he stared at the sleeping form in his arms, almost in shock. To think she still thought of her Angel as safe, still trusted him—even after having seen him. He could hardly let himself believe it.

His arms tightened around her briefly, and she stirred again. Guiltily, he berated himself for standing there reveling in the feel of holding her in his arms. He walked slowly out of the music room and into the bedroom he had prepared for her.

Slowly, reluctantly, he set her down on the bed and drew the covers over her. She curled on her side, looking for all the world like an angel from heaven. Almost without thought, his hand reached out and gently stroked her cheek. He could scarcely believe that she was here, in his home.

He hadn't meant to reveal himself to her this night, only to congratulate her on her debut performance. But then he had seen her leave with that handsome young fop, and his anger had burned to see her disobeying the rules he had set out for her. He had turned it on her upon her return, but her apology and subsequent questions had disarmed him. Once again acting on impulse, he had shown himself to her. He had cursed himself afterwards—his self-control seemed to vanish around her—but it was too late to undo it.

Her fearful reaction had made his hear turn to lead inside him, but he had been determined to make her see him as more than a monster. He had spoken to her, seduced her with his voice, but he had seen he was failing. She had backed away from him until she had hit her vanity.

Then the amazing had happened. Her eyes had closed, and he had prepared himself for screams, for cries, for tears. But instead her face had cleared, and he had watched with amazement as she had walked towards him, placing her hand in his.

He swallowed convulsively at the memory. He had never imagined that she would ever come with him willingly, without coercion or being under the spell of his voice. She was afraid of him—he had seen it in the tunnel—but she had still let him lead her on.

In bed, Christine gave a faint sigh and turned over on her back. He realized he had been standing and watching her sleep. Unable to resist the temptation, he softly kissed her forehead and crept out of her room.

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**This chapter was both fun and difficult to write. I hope I pulled it off okay!**


	5. The Dream is Shattered

**I don't own any of this really.**

**This is dedicated to my friend Laurie, for daring to write something of her own, even if she hasn't shown it to me yet. Krow, get cracking! ;)**

**Chapter Five: The Dream is Shattered

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Christine slowly drifted up from sleep towards wakefulness. She didn't want to wake up. She'd had the most fantastic dream that she'd had to take Carlotta's place, then Raoul had visited her, and finally her Angel of Music had revealed himself to be the Phantom of the Opera. Slowly she stretched under the blankets, rotating her shoulders to ease the stiffness of sleep; surely Madame Giry would come any minute to wake to the ballet corps for practice.

Lazily, she rolled onto her side and opened her eyes. She found herself staring at an elegant end table she'd never seen before. Her eyes flew wide open, and she sat bolt upright in bed, staring at the room about her. It was expensively furnished, and in a style she had always preferred. She looked down at the bed she was in. It was much bigger and far more comfortable than her cot in the ballet dormitories, or even her bed in her dressing room. Where was she?

Her dreams came crashing back to her, and she realized that they hadn't been dreams. She squeezed her eyes shut and reoriented herself. Everything had happened, and she was beneath the Opera House, in _his_ lair.

Opening her eyes again, she cautiously drew back the covers and got out of bed. She softly padded across the thickly carpeted floor and put her ear to the door. Nothing. She hesitated a moment. Should she stay in here or go out? The idea of waiting in here until he came to get her was not appealing. Opening the door as silently as possible, she poked her head out into an empty hallway. To her right she could see the lake through a partly open door.

Relieved to see something she recognized, Christine left her room and walked toward the lake, wrapping her crumpled robe more tightly against the chill of the air. Once at the door, she again hesitated, and then touched the door gently. It swung forward silently, opening far enough for her to slip through it.

Inside the room, Christine allowed her eyes to run over the lavish furnishings, reliving last night's events. There was the lake—the rusty grate once again barring the way—and the boat lay docked on the shore. Her gaze fell on the organ, and she realized that there was a sleeping figure seated at it.

It was her Angel. He had fallen asleep slumped over some sheets of music, pen still in hand. The masked side of his face was turned up, and Christine found herself creeping forward. What was he hiding under the mask? Why was he so sensitive about it?

She was beside him now, and he hadn't stirred. She knew it was foolish, but she had to see what lay beneath the mask. Otherwise, this whole experience would seem like just a delusion her fevered imagination had conjured up. But if she knew who he was, what was beneath the mask, it would be undeniably real. Her hand reached out, as if in a dream, and lifted the mask off his face.

She gasped, the mask dropping from nerveless fingers, aghast at the sight of his face. It was a ruin. Raised, red scars ran from the corner of his eye out towards the side of his face, covering it down to his mouth and stretching up to his hairline. The scars were fewer on his forehead, but the skin between them was stretched and cadaverous looking. A scar ran down the side of his nose, almost flattening it into non-existence. Only his eye was unscathed—an unblemished pool of white amidst the wreckage of his face.

Her gasp woke him up. She watched in horror as his eyes fluttered open, confusion at first clouding them. Then he felt the mask gone from his face and leapt up, covering it with his hand. "Damn you!" he roared, "prying demon!"

His eyes glowing with rage, he advanced towards her. Petrified, Christine backpedaled, but the backs of her knees struck a chair, and she fell into it. She turned sideways, tucking up her legs and huddling into a ball. She squeezed shut her eyes, waiting for him to kill her.

His hands slammed into the chair on either side of her head, and she could hear his harsh breathing just above her as he leaned in, trapping her.

"Is this what you wanted to see?" he hissed. Christine couldn't move, couldn't open her eyes. She remained curled into a ball, sobs welling up in her throat. Then his hands grasped her shoulders, forcing her to turn towards him. "Look at me! Is this what you wanted?"

She whimpered, but didn't dare disobey him. Slowly, she opened her eyes but she couldn't make herself meet his gaze. One of his hands left her shoulder and gripped her chin, forcing her to look up. "Is this what you wanted?" he asked again, his voice low and harsh.

Christine finally met his eyes, but she could no longer see the ruined side of his face. All that she could see were his eyes, glowing fiercely above her. Oh God, why had she touched the mask? Now the illusion had been broken on both sides: he would never trust her again, and she had seen both his face and his anger, and it frightened her.

Her eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry," she whispered, "I'm so sorry." Her eyes closed again, unable to bear what she had done.

Abruptly, he released her, and his presence was gone from above her. Christine's eyes popped open, and she saw that he had moved away. His back was to her, his hands curled into fists at his sides.

"Why, Christine? You couldn't leave it alone, and now you've seen this face, this curse. Why?" His tone was bitter and angry, but not as frightening, and Christine began to believe she was not going to die after all. She watched as his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides and great shudders ran through his shoulders. He continued, now almost whispering, "And how, having seen this face, can you think of me anything but a monster?"

Tears poured down Christine's cheeks—a combination of her fear and her sorrow. Once out from under his angry eyes, his voice once again defined her view of him. Eight years of voice lessons came to the fore, and he was not the Phantom of the Opera, but her Angel of Music that she had angered with a mistake. It gave her the courage to slowly unfold herself from the chair and retrieve his mask from the floor where it had fallen.

She timidly approached him, heart in her mouth, and touched his arm. He jerked around, hand leaping up to cover his deformity, and Christine jumped back. But he made no other move, and after they had stared at each other a few seconds, Christine slowly held out his mask.

Just as slowly he reached out and took it. He turned around to put it on. She let out a long, shuddering breath and wondered what would happen next. The atmosphere of the room was no longer filled with his fiery rage, but instead with cold, bitter anger and uneasy tension.

He turned back around, mask in place and his face coldly impassive. Christine sucked in her breath as he seemed to loom over her, but he merely said, "Come, you will soon be missed."

The journey back up was again quiet, but this time there was a great deal more tension. And, besides helping her in and out of the boat, the Phantom did not touch her once. She followed behind him miserably.

His unmasking and subsequent rage had opened Christine's eyes to a lot of things about her Angel, and she wished they could return to the easy mood they had shared while he sang. She wondered if he would still teach her or if he would desert her for betraying his trust and disappear into the darkness beneath the Opera House. She wondered what _she_ wanted him to do. Could she ever bear to have lessons from him again, knowing what she knew? But somehow the thought of him vanishing from her life entirely wasn't a happy one.

They had reached her room, and as she stepped through the mirror Christine turned around and to ask if he would come again. It suddenly seemed important to her that she know. But her question was met with the blank mirror clicking shut behind her, and there was no answer.

Her shoulders slumped. He was still angry with her. She stared at the mirror and wanted to call out to him, to find out whether he was still there. But she didn't. It seemed beyond her power to make her voice work; she was too uncertain of what his reaction would be, and suddenly all of her energy seemed to drain out of her.

Sadly, she turned from the mirror and dragged herself across the room to her bed. She didn't bother to remove her robe or slippers, dropping exhaustedly into bed and pulling the covers over herself. She thought she heard a whisper of sound from behind the mirror, but sleep overtook her, and she dropped into dreamless blackness.

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**I would also like to thank everyone who has or will review! You guys brighten up my day, especially when it's filled with homework.**


	6. Doubts and Secrets

**Sorry for the long wait, I got distracted by too many things. Hope this chapter makes up for it. Thanks to everyone who encouraged me not to give up on it. Just have to state also that I don't own any of this.**

**Chapter Six: Doubts and Secrets**

She was woken up by someone banging on her door.

"Christine! Christine, are you awake? It's nearly noon!" Meg's voice called out from the other side.

Christine moaned softly to herself; it didn't feel like she had gotten any sleep at all. But she sat up and padded to the door, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Clearly Meg would not go away until she had gotten an answer.

She opened the door, and Meg beamed at her, "Good, you're up." Christine just blinked at her, waiting for her to state why she was there. Meg peered at her face worriedly, "Are you alright? You're pale, and there are dark circles under your eyes. You're not getting sick are you? After all, there's another show tonight."

Christine sighed and mumbled, "I'm fine, just tired after last night's performance." She wondered if Meg was perpetually full of energy, or if she just put on an act to irritate people. Of course, Meg didn't have to worry about anything but her dancing either.

Meg smiled, looking relieved, "You did have a big night last night."

_Bigger than you know_, Christine thought, but didn't say anything.

Meg continued, "Do you want to come to lunch with me?"

Christine raked a hand through her disorderly curls. What she wanted was to be alone to try to sort things out in her head, but maybe having lunch with Meg was a good idea. She could clear her mind and put things in perspective. She nodded, "Okay, just let me get dressed."

Meg agreed, and Christine shut the door, promising to meet her downstairs. She walked over to the basin and washed her face with the tepid water in it, trying to wake up. Her thoughts seemed clouded and fuzzy. Did her Angel of Music really come to her last night? And was he really the Phantom of the Opera? Her eyes went to the now-wilted rose laying on the vanity. It had to be true, then. He had come, and had taken her down to his lair.

When she closed her eyes she could hear the music he had played for her last night. It had seemed to cast a spell over her. Then she had removed his mask—

Christine shuddered and grabbed a dress and put it on behind the dressing screen, shying away from the memory. Dressing in record time, she almost flew from the room, eager to escape.

She found Meg, and the two made their way to a tiny café. As they sat down, Christine tried vainly to keep her mind on Meg's idle chatter, but was finding it nearly impossible. She kept thinking of the Angel's voice, the Phantom's face and rage, and was finding it difficult to merge the two into one being in her mind. His face had been horrifying, an absolute shock compared to the beauty of his voice and the other side of his face.

But if his face had shocked her greatly, his rage had terrified her. If she closed her eyes, Christine was sure she would see those yellow eyes flaming at her, and hear his voice, no longer angelic, projecting menace into her very soul. Her breath caught in her throat at the memory, and Meg paused, looking worried again.

But before Meg could question her, a waiter approached and took their order. When he had left, Meg said, "Christine, are you sure you're alright? I don't think you've been listening to anything I've said."

Christine collected herself before answering, "I'm sorry. I'm fine; I was just thinking about last night."

Meg looked at her shrewdly, "Don't worry about last night's performance. You were wonderful. But you never got the chance to tell me who your tutor is. How come you've never mentioned him before?" She was leaning forward, eager for Christine's response.

The waiter brought their orders as Christine grew pale and stammered, "Well, h-he's very reclusive. He doesn't like anyone to know about him. It was his requirement for teaching me, in fact."

Meg giggled, "Then it's actually good that the Phantom showed up, isn't it?"

Christine choked on her coffee, "W-what?"

Grinning, Meg replied, "Well, if he hadn't dropped that backdrop on Carlotta you never would have got the part! No one knew you could sing, except for Maman apparently." Her looked turned puzzled, "But how did Maman know, if it was supposed to be a secret?"

Christine, although she was wondering that herself, quickly said, "She had to know so I would be free for my lessons." That had been bothering her also. She had never said a word to anyone about her lessons; her Angel had always seemed to know when she would be free and set the next lesson accordingly.

Meg didn't seem convinced, "I suppose, but I don't think you're telling me everything." She once again leaned forward, grinning slyly, "Maybe you are worried that I know another one of your secrets? But I don't blame you for keeping this one—the other girls will be horribly jealous."

Christine had paled again at the beginning of the speech, but now she was confused as to what Meg was talking about. Certainly not the Phantom. "What are you talking about?"

Meg pinned her with a glance, "Don't be coy, Christine. The Vicomte de Chagny takes you out to dinner, and you don't think the other girls will be jealous?"

Christine was relieved, "Oh, you mean Raoul." Then she blushed as she grasped what Meg was implying, "I told you before, we were childhood friends."

"You also said he had forgotten about you, and he obviously hasn't."

Christine shook her head, "It means nothing. But how did you find out about it?"

"From Maman, but it will be all over the Opera House by now. Really, Christine, you know how the gossip system works. But you're being humble. He obviously likes you!"

Christine laughed, a trifle nervously, "It was just one dinner, Meg. I'll probably never see him again." She wasn't sure if that was good or not. Raoul had been her best friend, and he was handsome enough to turn any head, but she didn't have much in common with him anymore. She was not a little girl anymore, even if she didn't have many friends; she had her own life in the Opera House, and he had his among the nobility.

But he was her last link to her childhood. It would hurt if he just abandoned her. Confused by what she actually wanted, Christine concentrated on steering the conversation onto safer topics.

After they finished with lunch, Christine and Meg returned to the Opera House via the grand foyer. Usually they had to enter thorough the back entrance, but at this time of day the foyer was empty. Christine loved to pretend that she was a grand lady, patronizing the opera instead of studying to be in it. It was a game she and Meg had played since they were little.

But when they entered, Christine saw with surprise that the managers, Madame Giry, and Raoul were all standing in a cluster at the top of the grand staircase. At the sight of them, Christine stopped. Behind her, Meg came to a halt also. Christine hesitated briefly, then started forward again, hoping to be able to get past without being noticed. She didn't want to have to answer any questions, or to have to face Raoul again so soon.

But luck was not with her, and as she moved forward one of the managers, Firmin, spotted her. "Ah, Mademoiselle Daaé," he called, "just the person we were talking about." Christine was left with no choice but to make her way towards them, pasting a brittle smile on her lips. As she approached, she noticed with trepidation that they were all looking at her strangely: the managers looked both scared and angry, Raoul was clearly worried, and Madame Giry had a look that almost stopped Christine in her tracks. It was an intense, _knowing_ look, and for the second time in as many hours Christine was struck by the feeling that Madame Giry knew exactly what had happened. Christine again resolved to talk to her alone sometime very soon.

She reached the group and murmured, "Good morning, Messieurs, Madame."

"Congratulations on your success last night, Mademoiselle Daaé. It seems you were quite a hit with everyone, including the Opera Ghost," said André, his tone dry.

If he had intended to shock her, he succeeded. Christine sucked in a breath and felt herself pale. "The O-opera Ghost?" she stammered in a shaking voice.

André handed her a note written on high-quality, cream colored paper. She noticed the broken seal was a grotesque skull. She scanned the contents, written with red ink in the same crude handwriting that had been on her card.

The message was simple: Christine Daaé was to continue to play the lead in _Hannibal._

She closed her eyes for a moment before looking up and handing the letter back. She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Her Angel hadn't abandoned her, but the letter had also mentioned a disaster would occur if they didn't follow his orders. Having witnessed his anger first hand, the idea of him creating a disaster filled her with trepidation.

She looked back down, sure her guilt was clear on her face, "W-what are you going to do?"

Firmin answered, "You'll sing, of course. The audience loved you, and Carlotta has not returned. But do you know why this "Opera Ghost" should be interested in you, Mademoiselle Daaé?" His tone indicated he thought she indeed knew why.

She jumped as Raoul spoke for the first time. "And this, Christine, can you explain this also?" She struggled to meet his gaze, and then looked back down.

Christine knew that the new managers still did not believe in the existence of the Opera Ghost, perhaps even suspected her of creating him in order to promote herself, but Raoul was worried only for her safety. She could see it in his face.

Silently, she took Raoul's letter. This one produced even more emotion in her than the first had. Why would the Phantom write to Raoul? The idea put her into a maze of confusing thoughts, and almost numbly she read:

Vicomte—

Mademoiselle Daaé is no longer a concern of yours; she is under my care now. Do not ever attempt to see her again.

O.G.

The breath _whooshed _out of her throat. She had not expected this at all, and didn't want to think of the implications of this note. The Phantom had certainly made clear his interest in her, even indicating that she was his alone. And while she was glad to find he hadn't outright rejected her after last night, her mind shied away from what exactly he meant when he said she was "under his care." The last sentence, too, concerned her. It was no idle warning; she was sure, but a threat on Raoul's life.

She knew that she was pale and trembling, and she desperately hoped that everyone would take it for fear, and not guilt. She couldn't reveal what she knew—even after these threatening notes.

So she lied, "No, I d-don't know why the Phantom would be interested in me, or write these notes." No one looked like they believed her, and she took a small step backwards, shaking her head. She wanted to get out of this situation, but didn't know how to get away.

She was as surprised as everyone else when Madame Giry spoke up, "Well if you've decided to follow _his_ instructions, and have satisfied yourselves as to Christine's motives, we must be going. There is rehearsal soon, and Christine needs to get ready. Then she turned with a swish of her black skirts, and swept off.

Christine, giving a small curtsy, followed her gratefully, Meg right behind her. She could almost feel her friend's curiosity radiating off of her, and was glad Madame Giry was there to contain her daughter.

They had gotten out of the foyer and into the hall leading to the ballet dormitories and dressing rooms when Christine heard her name. She stopped and turned around, recognizing Raoul's voice. Behind her she heard Madame Giry and Meg do the same. She was grateful she wouldn't be alone for the conversation; she had thought that she had escaped it altogether and wasn't prepared for it.

"Christine," Raoul said as he approached, "I worried about this." He came to a stop in front of her, "These notes are not written by a normal man. A normal man does not write letters pretending to be a myth! Why would he do this unless he meant some mischief?"

She answered, "I don't know why he would write those letters, Raoul. I don't know his motives. I told Buquet last week not to tell those horrid stories about the Phantom anymore, maybe he heard me this is his way of thanking me. I told you before, I don't know why he would be interested in me."

He took a step forward, "Exactly! You don't know why he would do this, and with these notes… Christine, you could be in danger from this Phantom. Come away with me. Come away where this madman can't reach you."

Christine hoped the Phantom wasn't listening. This kind of talk would not make him happy, and maybe get Raoul hurt. She gave a short, humorless burst of laughter, "Raoul, I can't just leave with you. Where would we go?"

"My family estate—"

She interrupted him, "And what would your family say? No, I'm an opera singer, not nobility. I must stay here."

"But this Phantom—"

She interrupted him again, feeling almost ruthless for some reason and determined to get this interview over with, "Won't harm me." She turned slightly away from him, to hide her face a little more. She felt so guilty! Had he really just asked her to run away with him? For a second her heart fluttered, but reason kicked in. Everything she had told him was true. Opera singers didn't marry nobility. She had to convince him she was safe; she didn't want him to get hurt by trying to protect her. She continued, "If he's this interested in my career I don't think he'll harm me. I'll be fine Raoul, really."

He didn't look appeased, "Christine, I have to leave Paris tonight, for business. I won't be back for two weeks. If anything should happen…"

"Nothing will happen. I'll be fine."

He looked unhappy, but was powerless to say more with Madame Giry and Meg standing there. At last he said, "If you're sure, Christine, then I'll take my leave of you now." He suddenly grasped her hands again, "But I'll come back Christine. I swear it; if you need me, I'll come back."

A feeling of warmth spread through her. He truly did care about her. She gave him a small smile, "This is my choice. Until we meet again then."

He raised her hand to his lips and pressed a courtly kiss upon it, "Until we meet again, Christine."

A little sad, Christine watched him go, and yet she was also relieved. Their dinner together had revived the friendship they had shared into its former fullness, but that was all. She was relatively sure now that she wasn't in love with him, except as a brother and dear friend. In many ways he did still remind her of the boy he once was, so energetic and youthful.

"Christine…"

Christine jumped; she had forgotten Madame Giry and Meg were there. She quickly turned around, blushing a little. Meg looked fairly bursting to say something, but Madame Giry looked concerned, "Christine, maybe you shouldn't attend rehearsal. Go back to your room and lay down, so you'll be fresh for the performance tonight. You've had a momentous day."

Christine was about to agree when she realized that if she went back to her room the Phantom might be there. And if she hadn't wanted to talk to Raoul this soon, she definitely did not want to talk to the Phantom yet. She had a lot to absorb and resolve in her mind before she would be ready for that. So she shook her head vehemently, "No!" Madame Giry and Meg gave her strange looks and she blushed, "I mean, no, I-I want to practice."

Madame Giry raised her eyebrows but only said, "Rehearsal begins in half an hour then." Then she walked off down the hallway, leaving Christine and Meg alone.

There was a moment of silence as the two friends looked at each other. Then Meg said in a quiet voice, "Christine, what is going on?" Gone was the bouncy girlishness of lunch, Meg was completely serious now.

Christine looked away. She couldn't bear to lie to her friend, but she couldn't tell her everything either. She knew Meg was genuinely worried for her. "It's complicated, and I can't tell you everything."

Meg grabbed Christine's arm, "You can't tell me about what? Christine, two days ago you were a simple ballet dancer; now you've replaced Carlotta, the Vicomte de Chagny wants you to run away with him, and the Phantom of the Opera is writing notes about you! Clearly you haven't told me much of anything!"

Christine stared at her, stricken, "I'm sorry. I swear the only secret I had two days about was about my tutor. The rest just…happened, and I don't know what to do."

Meg didn't say anything. Christine looked down the hallway, making sure they were alone. She moved closer to Meg and lowered her voice, "You can't tell anyone if I tell you. Promise?"

Meg nodded, "I promise. Just tell me."

"Do you remember me telling you how my father promised me he'd send me the Angel of Music after he died?"

Meg nodded again, "Yes, but what does that have to do with the Phantom, or Raoul?"

"Well he's—"

She was interrupted by footsteps. She fell silent as Joseph Buquet came around the corner, walking towards them. Meg gave her a look, but didn't say anything at Christine's tiny headshake.

They watched him approach, moving to one side so he could get through. He gave them a grinning leer as he passed, and Christine shuddered. Buquet had always disturbed and disgusted her. Many times she had caught him loitering around the dressing rooms. The other girls liked him for the scary stories he told. They were mostly about the Phantom and his death's head—in fact, he was the source of most of the Phantom stories floating around. Christine avoided him whenever she could. He always made her feel as if she were undressed.

Finally Buquet had disappeared from sight, his footsteps fading away into the distance. Meg whispered, "Go on."

But Buquet's appearance had broken the mood, and Christine realized exactly what she had been about to reveal to Meg. She shook her head, "No, I can't anymore—it's not my secret to tell anyways." That was true. Christine didn't know what the Phantom would do if he found out she'd told Meg, and she didn't want to find out. That note to Raoul had sounded extremely threatening; she didn't want anyone to get hurt because of her.

Meg looked frustrated and scared, "Raoul sounded pretty worried, and he said you were in danger. I want to know what's going one; I don't want you to get hurt."

Christine just shook her head, "We'd better get ready for practice."

Meg continued to press her on the way back to the dormitory, but Christine refused to answer.

When they reached the ballet dormitory, Christine grabbed a practice outfit—it hadn't been relocated to her new dressing room—and stepped behind a screen to change. Nearby, Meg did the same.

After they had changed they started to walk to the stage. Christine could see that Meg was hurt over her refusal to say anything. She stopped and looked at Meg. "Meg, I'm sorry. I can't say anything right now, but I promise you'll eventually know everything."

Meg studied Christine's face for a long moment. Finally she cracked a small smile, "You're much better at keeping secrets than I am. Just tell me as soon as you can, and don't get hurt."

Christine smiled back, glad her friend understood. They walked into the stage area.

Rehearsal was just getting under way, and they quickly took their places. Everything went smoothly, everyone making the correct adjustments to improve on last night's show.

Christine threw herself into practicing; it was better than thinking about her situation. She succeeded in losing herself in the normal worries of performing. The only trouble came during one of her songs. She raised her glance and it fell on Box Five. Madame Giry's voice seemed to sound in her mind, "He commands that you keep Box Five open for him…" That was where he watched her performance; he might even be watching now. At this thought her voice faltered, and she quickly focused back on her singing. The show continued without a pause—no one had noticed her almost-lapse.

Rehearsal ended, and Christine reluctantly headed back to her dressing room, dreading what she would find. But no notes, no roses, and no voice greeted her as she entered.

Wearily she sat down at the vanity and began to brush her hair. She didn't think that he would come to her right before a performance, but she wasn't sure. She didn't know him that well after all.

She thought back to her surprise that morning on hearing that the Phantom had written notes about her. She had thought that after what she had done he would have either abandoned her or found someway to take his revenge, not seek her promotion.

She didn't know what to think anymore. Was this man her trusted Angel of Music, or the feared Phantom of the Opera? Either way, he was filling her mind to the point of madness. A man she had only seen for one night!

Resolutely she donned her costume; the next move would have to be his. Christine remembered his reaction when she had pulled off his mask and knew she had betrayed his trust. She wasn't sure what he would do now. Ready for the performance, she swept from the room.


	7. Difficult Emotions

**I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my friend Krow, who looked it over and caught my idiot-mistakes, and to all the people who read this and encourage me to write more with their squees. **

**Chapter Seven: Difficult Emotions

* * *

**

Christine cautiously entered her dressing room after the performance, remembering what had happened yesterday—had it only been one day? Once again it was full of bunches of flowers. She looked hopefully towards the vanity: it was empty. He hadn't come.

She sighed and closed the door behind her. Going behind the screen, she changed into a nightdress. She wasn't sure if she felt relieved, or disappointed. Maybe he hadn't liked her singing that night, or maybe he was still angry with her.

This not knowing what he was going to do or what he felt was a torment to her. She fully repented of her foolish action in pulling off his mask. She regretted seeing his face. At the time, she had been too overwhelmed with dealing with his anger and its consequences to really think about it, but she could still picture it. She could picture every horrid inch of it, as if it was imprinted on her brain. She shuddered, and yet she realized that if she didn't concentrate on his face, it was easy to lose what she had seen in the image of him she already had in her mind. So she resolutely shoved the thoughts away. She could deal with his face later; she wasn't ready to face it now.

As she finished getting ready for bed, she realized what she really repented of was of angering him, and then leaving the encounter on such an uncertain note. Would he still watch over her and give her lessons? Or would he abandon her? Not knowing was like being on an island in the middle of a chasm. Both her bridges were gone: she couldn't go back to pretending the Phantom didn't exist, but she couldn't figure him out either.

Feeling somehow compelled, she tentatively called out, "Angel?" There was no answer.

She waited a moment, and then reluctantly climbed into bed. Suddenly, she had a thought. Last night after the show she had gone to dinner with Raoul, and then he had shown up. Maybe he would come later.

She resolved to sit up until he did.

She wasn't exactly sure why she needed to resolve this so much, why she needed to see him again, but she knew she needed to. She struggled to keep awake, but exhaustion rose to swamp her mind within minutes. Before she was completely asleep she thought she heard the faintest notes of music, coming from the depths of the Opera.

She woke up the next morning stiff from having slept half-sitting up. She rotated her neck, wincing as it cracked. Her eyes scanned the room eagerly. Nothing: no roses, no notes, and no sign the Phantom had ever been there.

A week passed in the same manner. It was as if the Phantom had never existed. _Hannibal_ continued its run, Christine performing splendidly each night. And each night she called out to her Angel, but he never came. She began to think he had abandoned her. After all, he could have written and sent those notes before she pulled his mask off. Perhaps he considered them a mistake.

Meg remained concerned about Christine, who constantly seemed pale and on the verge of tears. Christine avoided really speaking to her, knowing her friend still sought answers. She still couldn't give those answers.

One day, Meg pulled her aside, "Christine, I'm worried. You're going to make yourself ill if you go on like this. Is it because of," she leaned forward and lowered her voice, "the Phantom?"

Buquet, passing by, caught the word "Phantom," if not the question. He stopped beside the two girls, leering at them, "Gossiping about the Phantom are you? Well, despite his lack of tricks lately, he's still near. I can sense it. You'd best be careful or he'll have his revenge on you!"

Christine looked at him with scorn, "And what about you? You talk of him often."

Buquet smiled toothily at her, "Oh, I'm safe enough, _cherie._ I know this place better than any of you."

They had gathered a small crowd by this time, mostly ballet rats. One of the other dancers, Jammes, pleaded breathlessly, "Please, tell us about the Opera Ghost!" The other girls, except Christine and Meg, agreed and pressed in closer, although they had all heard the stories numerous times.

"Well," he began, clearly enjoying this, "as you know, the Opera Ghost has a horrible face. If fact, it's a death head, a death head with no nose. If you were unfortunate enough to come upon him in the dark, his eyes would glow with the fires of Hell. This Opera House is his; everything falls under his control. He even tells the managers what to do. And if anyone doesn't follow his order…" he paused and leaned closer to his enraptured audience, "he'll cause a disaster that would destroy it, and everything in it."

All eyes went to Christine; it was now common knowledge that the Phantom had demanded she be kept in the lead role. She flushed, but had had enough of Buquet's stories. "If this Opera House is his," she asked, "then why would he destroy it?"

Buquet frowned at her. "Don't question what he does if you want to live, mademoiselle," he warned.

"I don't believe any of it!" She swept out of the circle, desperate to escape, leaving behind murmurs. After all the Christine knew about the Phantom, with all of the problems she was having with him, she couldn't stand to listen to anymore of Buquet's stories. Buquet looked angry for a few moments, then went back to scaring his audience.

Another week went by, and it was suddenly the last performance of _Hannibal_. Christine was an emotional wreck. She felt so tense, waiting for the Angel to show up, that she could never truly relax. Bit by bit she was wearing herself down.

No one else felt it, of course. To them, if they even noticed, the Phantom's absence was a relief.

The last show came and went without a hitch. Christine entered her dressing room after it, strangely eager. Tonight, she felt, was the most likely night the Angel would return to her, if he ever meant to return at all. But once again the room was empty. Desolate, Christine changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. The darkness had never seemed so lonely.

* * *

Erik set down his pen with a sigh, slowly coming back to reality. Removing his mask with one hand, he rubbed his eyes with the other and stretched his back, arching and twisting it until it popped. It had been a long two weeks.

After he had escorted Christine back to her room, he had come back to his lair and began composing furiously. He had poured all of his emotions into the music: his terrible anger at her betrayal and removal of his mask, and his extreme despair that, having seen what was beneath it, she could no longer stand to be near him. It was the only way he knew to deal with his emotions; he hadn't trusted himself to see Christine again, not right away. So he had remained in this state for almost the entire two weeks, barely breaking his concentration for food or sleep, until he had exhausted all of his feelings.

Bleakly, he wondered why Christine hadn't just sent the gendarmes crashing through the mirror and down to his home. Certainly she must believe him a monster. Maybe she had left the Opera altogether, eager to escape from him.

Almost without hope, he made his way up the passage to Christine's mirror. If, against all reason, she had stayed, she would be there. While she had slept in his bed, he had sent instructions reading that she was to continue in the lead role. The managers wouldn't have disobeyed those; he could trust Madame Giry to see to that.

As he ascended, he could tell the opera was silent. It was night then. Christine would definitely be in her room, if she was here at all.

He reached the mirror and looked through it. He could see Christine's form on the bed, and a wave of relief washed through him. She hadn't left, hadn't run away.

But something was amiss. He peered through the mirror and frowned as Christine gave a faint moan and rolled over. Almost without thought, he silently slid back the glass and entered the room, making his way to her side. She was restless, twitching and rolling from side to side. She was also mumbling in her sleep. He bent over her to hear what she was saying.

"No…don't leave…alone," her voice was anguished. She continued, "Angel…please come back. I didn't mean to."

His heart constricted, and he stared down at her sleeping form in astonishment. She missed him? _No_, he sternly corrected himself, _she misses her Angel of Music, not you._ But he couldn't quell the hope that formed unbidden in his heart.

She whimpered softly, drawing his attention back to her. "Shh," he whispered soothingly, "I'm here." He couldn't resist stroking back the soft curls that had fallen over her face. "I'll always be here."

He knelt beside the bed and began to croon a lullaby. Slowly she calmed, slipping into a deeper sleep. Only when she was still did he stop singing. He didn't get up. He wanted to watch her sleep a little longer.

Calculating the time passed in his head, he realized that _Hannibal _had run its course. Looking down at his sleeping angel, he now bitterly regretted the feelings that had kept him locked in his lair for the past weeks. What had he missed? What had she thought?

Christine sighed in her sleep, jolting him out of his reverie. Reluctantly, he got up. It was past time he made contact with his managers concerning casting for the next production. Christine would sing the lead again, and this time he would be there to hear every performance. He exited the room, closing the mirror softly behind him. He would be writing notes tonight, but first he had to secure a gift for his angel.

* * *

Christine woke to someone shaking her shoulders. For an instant, a dim recollection of a soothing voice and gentle hands flitted through her mind, but it was gone too fast for her sleepy mind to follow.

The hands shook her again, "Christine, Christine wake up. The managers have asked to see you in their office."

It was Meg's voice, her tone impatient. Blearily, Christine opened her eyes. She remembered coming back to her room last night after the performance. Then she had collapsed into bed after finding the room empty of any signs of _him_.

Again, her dreams from the night before came to mind. She had dreamed he had been there, that he had sung to her. But that had just been a dream, she was sure of it.

She realized Meg was still talking above her. "Christine? Are you really awake? You have to get up; the managers want to see you."

Christine yawned and sat up. "The managers?" she repeated stupidly, "Now?" She reluctantly pushed herself out of bed and over to the basin. After splashing her face with the tepid water she turned back to Meg, who had sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you know what they want? And how did you get in here?" She knew she had locked the door last night.

Meg held up a key, "Maman gave me a key. You weren't answering my knock. And I don't know what they want, but Carlotta is there too."

Christine sighed irritably, and quickly got dressed. She didn't want to talk to the managers, especially if Carlotta was there. Tying her hair back with the black ribbon she had kept from the Angel's rose, she opened the door and motioned for Meg to precede her into the hallway.

They walked down the halls to the managers' office. Madame Giry met them outside the door, looking worried. "There you are, child," she said with yet another cryptic look, "I was beginning to think you had vanished." Before Christine could answer, Madame Giry swept her into the office and shut the door, leaving Meg outside.

Firmin was seated behind his desk. André was in front of it, clutching and fawning over Carlotta's hand. The diva was sitting on a chair, clearly not placated. André was speaking, "Please Signora, we are overjoyed at your return. You will of course have your old position back, we wouldn't think of doing anything else."

Christine grimaced. Carlotta had clearly discovered she was nothing without her singing career and had returned. And it appeared she would be singing lead again. Christine tried not to mind—she had only sung in one show after all. But surely the managers hadn't summoned her just to tell her she wouldn't be getting the next lead role? She stayed silent, standing partially behind Madame Giry just inside the office.

The click of the door as it had swung shut caused Firmin to look over at them. Christine couldn't read his expression as he stood and gestured her to the other chair. "Mademoiselle Daaé. Please have a seat; there are matters we need to discuss."

Timidly she walked to the chair and sat down. Madame Giry came and stood behind her, her manner stiff and disapproving. Christine began to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach—something was amiss here.

She knew she was right when, a few feet away, Carlotta jerked her hand from André's grasp and rose to her feet, anger mottling her face. She pointed a finger at Christine and spat, "She is the one behind this! This is all a trick so _she_ can take over my spot." Suddenly she started weeping, and sank back down into the chair, theatrically sobbing into the handkerchief André offered her.

Stunned at the sudden accusation, Christine looked perplexedly from Carlotta to Firmin. The managers were again focused on Carlotta. "Signora please," Firmin entreated, "you will have your old position back. We will not follow every order we receive on a note!"

At the word "note" Christine paled, her heart fluttering wildly. A note?

Firmin looked at her. A slight frown was on his face as he said, "We have received this morning, Mademoiselle, a note identical to the last, instructing us to cast you in the lead of the next production, which is _Il Muto_. However, as La Carlotta has returned we feel that her experience makes her more fit for the role of the Countess. You will play the secondary part of the Pageboy." He noticed Christine's pale face and added, "Do you understand, Mademoiselle Daaé?"

Numbly, she nodded. This news had thrown her mind into turmoil, her breathing growing shallow. He _hadn't_ abandoned her! He might even be watching now. She became aware that her fingers were clutching her skirt. With an effort, she forced herself to relax, smoothing back down the material.

She was about to get up and leave when Madame Giry spoke up, "It is not wise to disobey _his_ orders, Messieurs. Do not do anything you'll regret later."

Firmin stood up and leaned forward, his voice angry, "And do not say anything _you'll_ regret later, Madame. We are the managers here; do not presume to threaten us—we will not take orders!"

"I do not threaten you, Messieurs, but I have seen what happens when _he_ is disobeyed."

Firmin was practically bellowing by this point. "There is no he. The Phantom of the Opera does not exist! This," he brandished the note, "is a trick, a very poor joke. La Carlotta will play the Countess and Mademoiselle Daaé will play the Pageboy. That is my final word!" He sank back down into his chair, glaring at Madame Giry.

Twisting in her chair, Christine could see that Madame Giry was glaring back.

"If that is your decision," the ballet mistress said, in a cold tone, "then may the consequences be on your head. Come Christine." She swept towards the door.

After one last bewildered glance at Firmin, Christine got up and followed her out of the room. Once again events were plunging ahead at a rapid rate, leaving her to make what sense of them she could.

She followed Madame Giry back towards the ballet dormitories, intending to confront the ballet mistress on her knowledge of the Phantom. She was tired of being in the dark about what was happening.

They reached the door to Madame Giry's room, which was right next to the dormitories, and stopped. She began to speak, "Madame Giry—"

But her opening was lost as the Madame Giry turned around to face her. "He will not be pleased, my dear," she said, putting her hand on Christine's shoulder, "but he will not be angry with you. He will know it is not your fault his orders were disobeyed. He may even have been listening."

Christine met Madame Giry's knowing gaze and tried again, "Madame Giry, I need—"

But once again she was interrupted, this time by Meg coming out of the dormitory.

"What happened?" Meg asked, approaching them. "What did the managers want?"

Inwardly lamenting her friend's lack of timing, Christine turned to face her. Beside her, Madame Giry dropped her hand from Christine's shoulder and turned to face her daughter also. Between them, Christine could feel a mutual desire not to tell Meg about the Phantom.

"They just wanted to tell me what part I'm playing in _Il Muto_—the Pageboy." Seeing Meg's surprise, she continued, "Carlotta's back, and they gave the lead to her."

Meg scowled, "That toad! She came back after leaving for two weeks, and they give her the lead?"

"I know." Christine pulled a face, then sobered, "It's not as if I've had much experience though."

"Christine, you and I both know you're a better singer than Carlotta. Even if you won't tell me how that came about…" Meg looked inquiringly at Christine, who shook her head in the negative. Meg sighed, "You should talk to someone about it someday, Christine."

Who Christine wanted to talk to was Meg's mother, the sooner the better. But now was not the time. So she merely said, "I think I'm going to the chapel to pray."

Meg rolled her eyes, "You're always praying." But she didn't press anymore.

Christine took her leave of the Girys, but instead of going to the chapel, she returned to her dressing room. Her heart was pounding with…something. Was it hope or fear? She couldn't tell as she opened the door and slipped inside. Her gaze, as she shut the door behind her, flicked first to the mirror.

It was shut, and no voice issued forth immediately. She sighed, and leaned back against the door. She had been so sure…

Then she turned towards the vanity, and her mouth O'd in surprise. There was once again a perfect, red rose tied with a black velvet ribbon laying there. She went over and touched it with reverent fingers. He had come back, and it appeared that he had forgiven her.

Wisps of memory came back to her—glimmers of the dream she'd recalled as she'd awakened. Except maybe, she thought, it hadn't been a dream. Maybe it had been real. She sifted through her memory.

She had been in the foggy, dream state of the not-deeply asleep. She was alone. Petrified for some, unknown reason she had wept and called out for someone to hear her. But everyone had left her. They were all gone.

Then had come a soothing voice. A voice that had quieted her fears before singing a nameless melody that sent her tipping over the edge into true sleep.

Christine smiled now as she finally remembered the words the voice had spoken. _I'll always be here._

She picked up the rose gently and inhaled its fragrance. Delicately tracing a petal with a fingertip, she called out softly, "Angel?"

As it had been for the past weeks, there was no answer. But now the silence was not as ominous. She was not alone.

**

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****Sorry It took so long for this chapter. Finals and end of the semester projects, you know. But I'm on break now, so I'll have lots of time for writing, hopefully.**

**Bee and Jenn- Squeeee for Cincy!**


	8. Confrontations

**I don't own the Phantom of the Opera in any of its wonderful versions.**

**This chapter is dedicated to Mae for the pleasure of knowing and talking about crazy things with her, to Kit for giving me many interesting ideas to write about, to Nite for revitalizing my creativity when it was about dead, and to Bee, Jenn and Gary, for deepening my Phantom appreciation to new levels and making me generally hyper and intolerable to everyone around me ;)**

**Chapter Eight: Confrontations**

Christine's stomach was tense, and it wasn't from waiting for the curtain to rise. It didn't have anything to do with her close proximity to Carlotta either. Not that those things weren't somewhat nerve-wracking—it was only her second major part in a show, and the diva, who still hadn't forgiven her for playing the lead in the last one, had already sent several elbow jabs her way—but…there had been no further word from the Phantom. And that made her nervous.

The curtain was going to rise in a few moments on the first showing of _Il Muto_, and Christine was still in the role of the Pageboy. Nothing Madame Giry said had swayed the managers to change that. And, as knowledge of the Phantom's letter permeated the opera, people speculated on what form the Phantom's vengeance was going to take. The tension had stretched everyone, including Christine, thin as they had waited for the proverbial axe to fall. She especially knew what his rage was like when he was crossed, and even though it wasn't her fault, this time, she was frightened about being around him when he was angry.

Except nothing had happened. No manifestations of his wrath had appeared: no accidents, no spectral voices. Everyone, with the exception of Carlotta, felt that tonight was when he'd make his displeasure known.

Christine's stomach roiled again. She didn't think he'd do anything that could harm her, but that didn't comfort her much. The worry in the atmosphere was infectious, and as she waited for the curtain to rise she was a nervous wreck.

She heard the orchestra start. It was time. She locked her face into the appropriate expression, using her stage persona as a shield to hide her real feelings. In a way, she was glad her role was silent—her mouth was so dry right now she doubted she could sing a note.

The curtain rose and the opera began.

Minute by painful minute, the opening scene went by with nothing untoward happening. Christine felt the tension backstage begin to ease. She herself could not relax. She had known since receiving the second rose that her Angel had not abandoned her, but he hadn't come back to her either. She was still teetering on the edge of an abyss, unsure of what he would do as the Phantom.

What she had feared came to pass during Carlotta's first major aria. The diva opened her mouth to sing and instead… _croaked_. Christine, and everyone else, stared in horrified astonishment. Carlotta's face was red, but she bravely rallied and tried again. _Croaaack._

Whispers filled the audience. Christine could see the shock of the people standing in the wings. Only Madame Giry seemed unsurprised. Christine was shaken at the Phantom's retribution. It had to be him. Why else would this happen?

As if in response to her thought, a low, malicious chuckle reverberated throughout the stage. She froze. Beside her, Carlotta made another attempt to sing. More croaking resulted. Christine heard titters run through the audience. Once again, the Phantom's laughter sounded, but this time his voice followed it, "Did I not instruct that Carlotta was to play the silent role?" His voice seemed to come from all around, echoing until he seemed to be everywhere.

Gasps arose throughout the audience, and Christine heard several muffled curses from backstage. The opera folk, at least, knew who the voice belonged to. She looked up to the managers' box. They were pale and confused looking. Then she saw that Raoul was seated with them and swayed a little. "He's here," she murmured. She hadn't known he had returned. This could complicate things.

Carlotta had heard her murmured comment. Her sharp gaze raked Christine. "Your part is silent, little toad," she hissed spitefully, face still red in humiliation.

Before Christine could reply, the Phantom's voice came again, "A toad, Madame? Perhaps you are the toad."

By now utter confusion reigned in the Opera House. Carlotta's face reflected her mortification and fear, the audience was abuzz with talk, and backstage was deathly silent, no one knowing quite what to do.

The managers appeared onstage, both sweating nervously. Firmin elected to speak. "Ladies and Gentlemen," he began over the noise of the audience, "we apologize for this…incident. The opera will continue in a few minutes—" A swift glance told him that Carlotta had fled in a flurry of tears. His gaze fell on Christine, and he continued, "It will be continued with Mademoiselle Daaé in the role of the Comtess."

With a flourish, the curtains closed in front of them. Firmin whirled on Christine, "Go girl! Get ready!"

In a daze, Christine allowed herself to be swept off by Madame Giry and whisked into the Comtess's costume. _Lucky Carlotta isn't a lot bigger than me_, she thought somewhat stupidly. Then she found herself back onstage and the curtain rising.

When she tried later, Christine couldn't remember much about the performance. Everyone went through the motions, while inwardly they were tensed for the Phantom to do something else. Christine found herself unable to think much at all, so flustered was she by the return of both her teacher and her erstwhile protector.

She fled to her dressing room as soon as the show was over. But even as she opened the door, she heard her name being called behind her.

"Christine! Wait!"

Sighing, she waited, turning around to watch Raoul's approach. Why did he have to return on this night, of all nights?

He stopped in front of her, mouth set in a grim line. She met his eyes squarely, "Raoul, I didn't realize you had returned. It's nice to see you again." She attempted a smile.

His eyes narrowed, "Is that all you can say to me? Surely you're not going to pretend that _that_," he waved his hand back towards the stage area, "is nothing?" When she didn't say anything, he continued, clearly both worried and exasperated, "Christine! You can't ignore this. You are in danger. Who knows what this so-called Phantom, this madman, will do next?"

She looked away, "It's not as it seems, Raoul. I'm safe."

Raoul sighed, "Will you discuss it with me over dinner at least?"

Christine's head jerked up, eyes wide. "D-dinner?" she stammered. Throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder at her empty dressing room, the full-length mirror painfully obvious, she answered, "I'm sorry, Raoul, but I can't. I'm quite tired, and I need to rest for tomorrow."

"But I can't just leave you here, not after _this_!" He was adamant, and Christine could tell he was clearly taking his perceived duty to protect her quite seriously.

Christine, however, was unwilling to be protected in this case. The opera was her home; she couldn't run away from it. So she didn't back down, however much she longed to just get away from this situation. "You can do just that, Raoul. I told you I'm safe, and I'm not leaving. Not now anyway."

He searched her face and didn't seem to like what he read there. His shoulders slumped a little, "As you wish, Christine. We'll discuss this later" His words held a promise in them. He wasn't going to let this drop.

He took a hold on both of her arms. "Stay in your room. Lock the door. If I must leave you here, then at least promise me you'll take precautions and stay safe." She just nodded. He looked her in the eye and sighed. Then his lips softly brushed her forehead. "I'll take my leave of you then," he murmured. He turned and slowly walked back down the corridor, Christine staring after him.

There was no doubt of it; Raoul was falling in love with her. Christine wanted to groan. She didn't need this; she hadn't sorted out what the Phantom wanted with her, she didn't need to deal with Raoul and what he wanted also. It was ridiculous anyway—a Vicomte didn't fall in love with an opera singer. That only happened in the stories the other girls made up at night.

Shaking Raoul from her mind, she slowly turned and entered her dressing room. She was concerned with another man entirely right now, and she only hoped he hadn't witnessed that meeting. "Angel?" she called.

There was no answer.

* * *

Jealousy. That was the only word for the fire that consumed him from the inside out. He was awash with it. He had made his way to Christine's room immediately after the performance. When she had opened the door, he had tensed expectantly, but then he had heard the boy's voice. Now he sat watching the meeting. From the behind the mirror, he watched as the Vicomte come up to Christine. His vision narrowed until he could only see one thing: the Vicomte, asking Christine to dinner, _kissing_ her forehead, trying to take her away from him.

The Vicomte left, and he quickly followed, going down another secret passage. The Vicomte's way would take him past the chapel, and Erik's path was faster, he would get there first. No one disregarded his orders, not even the Vicomte de Chagny.

The Vicomte didn't have a chance. As he walked by the chapel door, Erik simply stepped out of the shadows and dragged him back into the chapel. Before the boy could react, he had dropped his noose over the boy's neck and was mercilessly tightening it. The boy clawed at the rope but couldn't get any leverage. Erik chuckled mirthlessly, he had no intention of killing him now—that would draw undue attention to the Opera House and him—he would just leave the boy unable to speak or move easily for a few weeks. A warning to leave what was the Phantom's alone. He didn't think of the consequences this little warning was going to cause, all that mattered was showing the Vicomte that Christine was _his_, Erik's, alone.

The Vicomte continued to struggle, but Erik hung on effortlessly and whispered in his ear, "I told you to leave her alone, Vicomte. You should have listened." His words galvanized the Vicomte to greater efforts to break away, throwing his body about in an attempt to free himself. He kicked over the candle stand, and it fell over with a crash, sending candles rolling to the far corners of the room. The picture of Christine's father came to rest by Erik's feet, the grave countenance staring up at him through cracked glass.

_Christine._ The name was like a bucket of ice water. If she didn't think him a monster before… With a deft movement, he dislodged the noose and gave the boy a vicious shove in the small of his back with his boot. He landed sprawled out on the floor. Leaving him gasping and choking for breath, Erik turned and vanished into the secret passage, on his way back to Christine.


	9. A Contest of Wills

**Happy New Year everyone! This chapter is dedicated to all my friends, old and new, who made last year wonderful.**

**Chapter Nine: A Contest of Wills**

Christine slowly walked to her vanity and sat down. Why wasn't he there? Why hadn't he come, especially after declaring himself in such a spectacular fashion? Dejectedly, she picked up her brush and started brushing her hair.

She wondered why it was so upsetting that he wasn't there. By all rights, she should be terrified that he _would_ come. He was definitely angry, and she had experienced his anger personally and wasn't eager to do so again. And yet, she wanted her Angel back. Wanted the deep, wonderful voice that had been one of the only constants in her world since the death of her father. Memories rose up unbidden: of singing with him deep beneath the Opera House, of finding roses, of the promise she'd half-heard, half-dreamed. _I'll always be there._ When he wasn't caught in the throes of a fiery rage, her Angel made her feel safe, and—

She was interrupted by someone pounding on her door. She frowned, put down her hairbrush, and got up. Moving to the door, she wondered who it could be. "Who is it?" she called out cautiously.

A very weak and muffled voice came back, "Christine! It's Raoul"

Raoul? Why had he come back so soon? And what had happened to his voice? She opened the door a crack, only to have it shoved out of her grasp and flung completely open.

She gasped. It was Raoul standing there all right, but something had happened. His face was mottled red, his clothes were disheveled, and he was breathing heavily, with an unhealthy-sounding rasp. She stared wide-eyed as he pushed past her and visually searched the room. "Raoul, what are you—" she started to ask.

He whirled and grasped her upper arms, scanning her face and neck. "Are you alright? Has he been here? Did he hurt you?" His voice was very weak and harsh.

Christine shook her head in confusion. "I'm fine but—" Then Raoul's second question sank in, and she paled. _He knew._ He knew for sure that the Phantom was real. Nervously, she wetted her lips and began again, "Raoul—"

But he wasn't listening, beyond that she was fine. He released her arms, only to grab her wrist with one hand. He began towing her towards the door. "We have to get out of here now! You're not safe here. You can stay at my family's house tonight."

Christine's thoughts had been whirling, but she became alert at that. She grabbed the doorframe with her free hand and clung, stopping their progress.

Raoul turned around to look at her in confusion and irritation. "Christine, what are you doing? We have to go."

She didn't let go of the doorframe. "I told you, I'm not leaving. You agreed to it not fifteen minutes ago. Now what happened?"

He released her wrist and raked a hand through his hair, mussing it further. "I'll tell you at my house. We need to leave first."

Christine frowned at his voice; it was rough and grating, as if it hurt him to talk. She raised her chin. "No. Tell me what happened."

He hesitated, and then said, "Fine, but we need to go somewhere where _no one_ can listen."

His emphasis dispelled any doubts she might have had that he didn't know about the Phantom. She drew in a shaky breath. Catching up her cloak from its hook by the door, she stepped into the hallway. "Follow me then," was all she said.

She led the way through the myriad of corridors in the Opera House, going ever upward, Raoul following silently at her heels. She had been this way many times, but now it seemed different, darker. Her imagination conjured flutters of cape in every shadow and flashes of white around every corner, until she began to fear it wasn't just her imagination. She drew her cloak tighter around her and walked faster.

Finally they went through a last door and exited onto the roof. It was dark outside, with only the moon casting any illumination on the roof. The air was cold enough for her to see the puffs of her breath as she led the way to the edge, away from any wall or doors. There were only statues here, statues and the breathtaking vista of Paris spread out beneath them.

Christine sighed; she often came here to find solace in the peace prevalent here, but she doubted this conversation was going to be peaceful. Anything but most likely.

Reluctantly, she turned around to face Raoul, who had stopped a few steps behind her. Before she could say anything, Raoul took control of the conversation. "Christine, you have to listen to me," he said, stepping closer. "You're in danger here. You have to come with me."

Christine stood her ground. "Raoul, I am not in danger."

"How can you say that?" he croaked, scowling at her.

She frowned, both at his words and at his voice. What had happened to him? A sense of foreboding gathered along her shoulder blades, and she twitched them, but answered firmly, "He wouldn't harm me."

Raoul laughed harshly, and then bent almost double in a fit of coughing. She put a hand out in concern, but he waved it off and straightened with difficulty. "So now you defend him. I won't ask how you know him, what lies he had told you to gain your trust." He shook his head. "Little Lotte was always innocent and trusting, and you still are. But you must abandon this game. Look what kind of man we're dealing with."

He tore open his collar and bared his throat to the silvery moonlight. Christine gasped. Even in the half-light, she could see the purple bruises, the swelling. Her mind switched abruptly from the beginnings of anger to full-blown confusion.

"H-he did this?" she stammered, unwilling to believe it, even with the evidence in front of her eyes. She didn't want to accept that her Angel had done this. _The Phantom of the Opera could do this_, an insidious voice in her mind whispered. _How well do you know the Phantom? He was never your Angel, it was all an act._

Christine shunted that voice aside as Raoul replied, "Yes, right after I left you in the hallway. Now do you see why you have to come with me?"

Christine stopped listening. All that she could hear was the voice in her mind whispering. _How well do you really know your Angel?_ She backed slowly across the roof, shaking her head. "No," she murmured, "why would he do this? I don't understand."

Raoul mirrored her movements, matching her step for step until she bumped up against a statue and was forced to stop. She put up a hand, as if to ward him off, but he captured it in one of his own. She felt helpless to pull away, even though she didn't want to see him right now, she didn't want to see anyone. She suddenly wanted to be alone, to sort this out. To sort out the lies her world had been built on.

Raoul spoke gently, as if to a child. "He's clearly a madman. Come with me. You can stay at my house in town tonight and leave for the estate tomorrow. You'll be safe there, he can't come near you."

"No," she mumbled. Even amid all the lies, here was the only world she knew, the only solid place for her to cling to in her misery and confusion. She spoke with a bit more force, "I'm not going with you. It wouldn't be proper. I will not be your mistress, Raoul."

"You misunderstand me Christine." He raised her hand to his lips and knelt on one knee. "Come with me as my wife."

Christine made a strangled sound, one that seemed to be echoed quietly from above her. "Y-your wife?" She barely managed not to sway.

Raoul nodded, "Yes. I love you, Christine. I have since we were children together. My Little Lotte, who's grown beautiful enough to be an angel."

_Angel_. The word called Christine out of the depths of her shock.

Raoul pressed on, "Marry me. Come away from this place, this world. It's not a fit place for you."

That brought Christine fully back to the present. "_This _world," she said ominously. "This world is not fit for me? This world is where I have spent my last ten years," she spat, suddenly needing to attack something, "This is who I am, a dancer at the Paris Opera House." She wrenched her hand from his grasp.

Raoul looked stunned by the verbal assault. "I only meant you deserve better. You deserve balls and dinner parties, not practice and dress rehearsals." He rose to his feet and tried to embrace her.

She pulled away. "Dancers and noblemen don't marry," she said.

He sighed, "You're not being sensible. Here, I'll take you to my sister's then. That's perfectly proper. It will make more sense in the morning."

Christine couldn't stand anymore; the events of tonight had been too much. She fled across the roof to the door. Behind her, she heard Raoul calling for her to wait. Hand on the doorknob, she turned and said, "I can't, Raoul. I need to sort things out." Then she opened the door and vanished through it.


	10. Dangerous Conversations

**I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.**

**Sorry this update took a while. I got caught up in some other projects. Sadly, I am also running out of pre-written chapters. So updates will be slower as I frantically write to get ahead again.**

**Huge thanks to my Beta!bee. She was really nice to look over this chapter on such short notice. Thank you also to Jenn and Krow, for being faithful supporters. And, as always, many thanks to everyone who reads!**

**Chapter Ten: Dangerous Conversations

* * *

**

She didn't stop until she had reached her room, locking the door behind her. She knew Raoul wouldn't leave; he would come down to make sure she was safe and to try to persuade her to leave one last time. But she had another conversation to attend to first.

She gathered up the remaining sparks of her anger and waited for the Phantom to come. It was inevitable, she knew. After the attack and subsequent conversation on the roof—one that she was nearly certain he had heard—he wouldn't stay away. She was right. It was only a minute or two before his voice floated through her mirror.

"Christine." It was a statement, not a question. Christine knew he was waiting to see what her reaction was.

She let her anger grow a tiny bit. It was clear from his tone he wasn't going to offer explanations for his actions. "Please leave," she said flatly. "I don't want to talk to you either. I need to think." She believed what she had told Raoul—he wouldn't harm her, not like he had Raoul. She truly didn't believe it.

"I will not—" he retorted, his voice threatening.

Ruthlessly she cut him off. She didn't care if he made her cluck like a chicken onstage, she was tired of being dictated to, lied to, and generally left in the dark. "Just go! Don't come back. I don't want to talk to you ever again."

"How do you propose to make me go?" he asked menacingly.

She looked straight at the mirror, seeing her reflection in it. She looked hideously thin and pale, but she pressed on. "Raoul is going to be knocking at this door in a few minutes. All that it would take is a whisper of what I know is behind my mirror…" she trailed off, trying to appear calm. Inside she was quaking, aghast at what she was doing. She was threatening the Phantom of the Opera. She could hardly believe it, but she was putting all her faith into the fact that he hadn't hurt her yet, not even when she had torn away his mask. It was a thin thing to hold on to, but she clung to it desperately.

Evidently he couldn't believe it either. Now his voice was filled with barely-contained rage. "And what is to stop me from silencing you now?"

Christine fought not to shiver. "If I don't answer, he'll come looking for me."

"You're walking a dangerous line, mademoiselle," he warned.

Christine's courage was eroding faster by the second. She had to end this soon. But how? "I just want both you and Raoul to leave me alone," she managed to say, although it came out almost a whisper. She held her breath and waited to see if he would call her bluff. Surely he would, and she didn't know what she would do when he did.

There was a moment of silence. Christine grew tenser, pressing her palms against the firm wood of the door in an effort not to show it.

"As you wish, Christine," came the surprising reply. The anger had left his voice, though she couldn't guess why. She waited for him to say something else. Surely there would be some demand, some stipulation for his acquiescence. But he didn't speak again.

Christine sagged against the door and covered her face with her hands. A loud knock sounded by her ear and she almost shrieked.

"Christine! Are you in there?" Raoul's voice came, muffled by the wooden door separating them.

She stifled a sigh. "I'm here and I'm fine. Just go away Raoul. I don't want to discuss this anymore tonight." After dealing with the Phantom, handling Raoul proved much easier. Especially since she had the benefit of a locked door between them.

"But what if he comes for you? You're not thinking clearly. Please open the door, Christine."

"He has been here and gone already, Raoul, and I told him the same thing. I'm not coming out. I need to sort things out myself." She felt a little guilty for implying the Phantom had come by the door, but if Raoul knew the truth he'd never leave. His insistence that she wasn't thinking clearly was beginning to annoy her also.

"He was here? My God, Christine are you okay? He didn't hurt you?"

"I never saw him," Christine said truthfully. "I spoke to him just like this. Now please go and leave me in peace!" She almost shrieked the last at him.

"It seems you leave me little choice." Raoul sounded almost sullen.

Christine didn't reply. Pressing her ear to the door, she at last heard his footsteps going down the corridor. He was gone also.

Hanging her cloak by the door, she found a nightgown and went behind the wooden screen to change. Then she sat down on the bed and considered what she had done. She had driven away just about everyone who cared for her. Her Angel, Raoul, even Meg—for Christine had been closed with her friend lately. Only Madame Giry seemed to have some idea of her dilemma and gave her sympathy for it.

She thought about what she had learned tonight. She had known that her Angel was the Phantom for some time now, but tonight had made clear exactly what that meant. He had humiliated Carlotta and attacked Raoul just because they had disobeyed his orders. And both of those orders had had to do with her: Carlotta had taken her role and Raoul had tried to see her again. The thought left her cold, shaken to her core. If seen in this light, it was obvious that the Phantom considered her his possession and guarded her jealously. But if that were true, why had he left so easily? That didn't fit with the picture of him she had in her mind.

"Are you still there?" she whispered. She told herself that she was relieved he didn't answer, but as she climbed under her blanket the thought came that if he was jealous of her, maybe he more than cared for her. The thought scared her even as it warmed her.

Despite her words to Raoul, she didn't know this man. She didn't even know whether to call him Angel or Phantom! As she fell asleep, she knew she would have much to think about for the next few days. She fully intended to keep to what she had said – she wanted to sort things out on her own. She knew neither man would stay away long, but hopefully they would stay away long enough for her to reach some conclusions.

* * *

Seeing that Christine was safely asleep, Erik relaxed a little. He hadn't known what she would do in her state; he had half-expected her to run after the Vicomte and take him up on his offer. He turned and walked down the passage, heading back to his home. He had made this journey so many times only a small part of his mind was needed to do it. The rest was free to think of all that had happened that night. Like Christine, he needed to sort things out.

After leaving the chapel he'd returned to the mirror in Christine's room but had been unable to make himself enter. He was a monster, how could he bear to be in her presence? Unable to enter, and unwilling to leave, he'd stood there until the Vicomte had returned. Erik wasn't surprised; even he couldn't deny that the boy wanted to protect Christine. He had decided to stay silent and see what played out; when the Vicomte had grabbed her wrist he'd had to stifle a growl, but he'd managed to stay silent. When they had left, he had easily guessed Christine's destination and followed them through the hallways. Once on the roof he had secreted himself on top of one of the statues, blending in easily with the shadows. Below him the drama had unfolded—a drama he could predict but was helpless to stop.

The Vicomte had shown Christine his neck. As Erik had known it would, her face had reflected horror and fear. _All is lost_, he'd thought, _she sees me as a monster; she won't ever trust me again._ Christine had backed away from Raoul, backed into the base of the statue he was on, actually. The boy had followed her and he could no longer see what was going on without risking revealing himself. But he could hear perfectly.

Christine's refusals to leave with the boy had surprised him. Why was she so desperate to stay? But all of his surprise had disappeared when he'd heard the Vicomte's marriage proposal. More despair than he had ever felt before had welled up inside of him, even more than when she had pulled off his mask, and he had given a strangled cry in spite of himself. She hadn't run off after that incident, had resisted the Vicomte's pressings so far, but how could she fail to go now? The Vicomte offered her wealth, a title, a life of ease.

He'd closed his eyes and gripped the statue tightly, fighting to stay in control as he'd listened to the Vicomte's protestations of love. Every particle in him was poised to hear Christine's answer. His heart had beat faster. _She'll go_, it had seemed to chant,_ she'll go. She'll go. She'll go._ Instead he had listened, amazed, as Christine had lashed out like a cornered animal. His eyes had popped open and he had watched her flee the roof.

The jarring of the boat jerked his thoughts back to the present. He had reached his home. Disembarking, he crossed to his desk, shedding his cape along the way. Sitting down, he looked at the drawing he had completed earlier of Christine seated in the chapel, head bowed in prayer. She was truly an innocent spirit, which was why he had let her order him away tonight.

When she had first demanded that he leave he had begun to get angry, and when she had threatened him he had almost lost his temper entirely. Then her whispered plea had forced him to see how thin her courage really was; she had just been using any means available to get him to leave before she broke down completely. He had backed down at once.

He smiled as he remembered her surprise at his apparent surrender. Surely she didn't believe he'd left because of her threats? If he'd wished, he'd only have had to wait until Raoul had left before silencing her, and, as it was, he had stayed to make sure she did nothing foolish, like try to run away from both of them and strike out on her own.

He resolved to let her have her time. Patience would best advance his cause. He would still watch over her, of course, but he wouldn't seek her out or attempt to influence her until she was ready.

He withdrew a fresh sheet of paper and began a new drawing: Christine, half-braced by her door, with her eyes wide on her face. Young and scared, but not willing to back down. He bent his head to his task. He would give her the time she needed, as long as the Vicomte did the same…


	11. Sparks

**I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.**

**This chapter is dedicated to my friend Krow and the crazy conversation that spun from this. **

**Chapter Eleven: Sparks**

True to his word, the Phantom indeed left Christine alone. In fact, he seemed to disappear entirely. The morning following Carlotta's disgrace, the managers woke up expecting to receive more notes. None were there, or arrived that day. The theater crew went around with hunched shoulders, expecting to be struck down at any moment. But nothing happened.

A few days went by. While everyone else grew twitchier and twitchier, Christine grew more and more relaxed. She felt relieved that the Phantom had kept his promise, and, although Raoul had shown up everyday, she had been quick to avoid him, giving him no chance to speak to her privately. She still wasn't sure what she thought of either of them, but she was impressed that the Phantom at least was giving her time to figure it out.

The Phantom, in the meantime, was deriving a great deal of enjoyment from the situation. It was amusing, he thought, how much havoc he could wreak by not doing anything at all.

He had concealed himself in the darkness of the flies, watching this night's performance of _Il Muto_. His position was perfect; he could see and hear everything, and no one would notice him—the few stagehands that worked up here were too wise to go poking around in dark corners. At least, most of them knew that.

He cast a dark look over at Joseph Buquet, who was working over to his left. He was tempted to play some devilish trick on the man, but that would mean revealing to Christine that he'd been there. He settled for glaring at Buquet's back.

With every passing day the stagehand had grown more and more vehement in his storytelling. He swore that the Phantom's revenge was still to come, and exactly what he predicted it would be grew more and more horrifying every day. He would probably start telling people that the Phantom was going to cause the Opera House to collapse in on itself any day now. Even the ballet corps, usually eager to swallow any story, was beginning to believe he was crazy. And worse, he was growing nosier. Twice he had seen the man examining the shadows far too closely for his liking.

But he turned his attention from Buquet as, below him, the curtain rose. Christine came onstage, and he was lost, completely, deliriously lost to his surroundings. It was only halfway through the second act that he looked around and noticed that Buquet was nowhere to be seen.

Christine began to sing below him, but he couldn't ignore the prickle that itched at the back of his neck. That feeling had always served to warn him when someone was approaching, or if he was in danger of being discovered.

The faint scrape of a door made him look to his left. It was Buquet, coming out of a door to the far left. Erik frowned; those rooms contained only the gearing for the—

A _crack _made him look up. The chandelier swayed, and a few small chunks of ceiling fell. The entire Opera House fell silent for a brief moment, waiting. There was another crack, and the chandelier began to fall, its chain ripping out of its path in the ceiling, sending the chandelier plummeting towards the orchestra pit and stage. Towards Christine.

The thought had barely entered his brain, and he was moving, grabbing a nearby rope and using it to descend to the stage in the space of a breath. Christine was backing away, but it wouldn't be fast enough or far enough. He crashed into her and simply carried her along with him out of harm's way.

With a massive crash, the chandelier crashed to the stage, sending him to his knees, Christine in front of him. A rain of crystal shards fell around them, and he curled around Christine, holding her tightly against him, acting as a shield for her. Screams filled the air, but he paid them no attention, focusing on Christine lying on the floor in front of him. She had fainted, but appeared to be otherwise unharmed.

The scent of smoke had him glancing around. People were rushing everywhere, and a few small fires had broken out near the wreckage, sending out billows of smoke. Out of the corners of his eyes, he saw the Opera's firemen converging. The fires would soon be out, but he had to get Christine out of here before someone noticed him.

Turning back to her, he carefully scooped her up and stood. Through the chaos he heard someone else calling her name. Cradling her against him, he turned and saw the Vicomte where he was leaning over the railing of his box just as the other man spotted him. The two men's eyes met in a silent challenge over the unconscious girl between them. Then Erik inclined his head mockingly and vanished backstage, the whole exchange lasting only seconds.

* * *

Christine rose slowly out of the blackness that had claimed her when the chandelier had fallen. She was drifting in a dream-world. Her mind floated more, then slid over the invisible line from "sleep" into "wakefulness." Her eyes blinked open to…more darkness.

She drew in a sharp breath and twitched, only to find she couldn't move much at all. Someone was carrying her, arms around her ribs and knees, and, given the last thing she remembered, Christine thought she knew who it was.

In confirmation, a familiar voice came from above her. "You are okay, angel. You fainted when the chandelier fell."

Christine raised her head, seeing the glow of his eyes above her. Even in the darkness they burned yellow. _Like cat eyes,_ she thought, _No wonder he can see in the dark._ "Where are we?" she asked aloud, her voice sounding weaker than she'd intended. _Where are you taking me?_ The unvoiced question floated between them.

He heard it, and his arms tightened fractionally around her. "We're in the labyrinth, behind your mirror," he said. Christine tensed, waiting to hear the rest. He felt her withdrawal and stiffened. "I'm taking you back to your dressing room," he continued coolly.

Christine allowed herself to relax. Neither said anything, as moments later, he came to a halt. Gently, he sat her on her feet and there was a click as he opened the mirror.

She blinked at the sudden light and went to step through. The room swayed, and she clutched at its frame.

She was swiftly scooped up again. "I'm fine," she protested as her carried her over to her small bed.

Setting her down gently he said, "No, you may be in shock. You must rest."

There was a pounding at the door. Christine sat up in spite of the Phantom's restraining hand. "It's Raoul," she hissed, "Go! He can't find you here!"

There was a slight pause, then he nodded stiffly, and, with a swirl of cape, he was gone.

Christine was still a moment. Then the pounding increased in volume, and she could hear Raoul shouting her name. Wearily she got up and went to the door.

Just as she reached it, it burst open and Raoul spilled into the room, almost knocking her over. "Christine, you're here! When you didn't answer, I thought..." He gripped her arms. "Are you okay? Where is he?" He looked intently around the room. Somehow, he obviously knew that the Phantom had carried her here.

She freed herself and laid a hand on his arm. "I'm fine Raoul. He's not here—he left."

Raoul looked down at her in disbelief. "I cannot believe you're so calm about this, after what he did—dropping the chandelier, almost killing you!" He released her arm to rub gingerly at his throat.

Christine's eyes widened. "But he didn't. He saved my life."

Raoul had opened his mouth in retort when she swayed a little again, feeling very dizzy. He quickly put an arm around her to steady her. He helped her over to the bed. "I thought you said you were fine," he said worriedly as he helped her sit down.

"I am," she said, massaging her forehead. "I'm just having trouble keeping up with events." She gave him a weak smile.

He didn't return it, looking more and more concerned. "Should I fetch a doctor?" he asked.

She carefully shook her head. "No, I just need to rest. And I'm not leaving, Raoul," she said, forestalling the predictable request.

"But what if—" he began.

She interrupted, "He won't come back tonight."

Raoul sighed, but looked resigned. Christine was glad he hadn't yet decided to drag her out of the Opera House by force. While what she said was true—she didn't think the Phantom would come back tonight—she was also reasonably sure he was still watching. She didn't want Raoul to provoke him anymore than necessary. She was relieved when Raoul, although clearly unhappy with the situation, took his leave. She locked the door behind him and went behind the screen to change into a nightgown and robe. She had to steady herself several times, even though she moved very slowly, but she managed to change without falling down or having any more serious dizzy spells.

Stepping out while clutching the robe around herself against the chill, she headed back to her bed. Then she hesitated and looked towards the mirror. It was closed, and all she saw was her reflection. Still, she knew he was there. "I didn't get a chance to thank you," she said quietly, "for saving my life."

There was no answer, but she didn't expect one. She blew out the lamps and got slowly into bed.

She didn't go to sleep right away. Instead her thoughts were preoccupied with the Phantom. His presence tonight didn't surprise her. He had kept his promise to leave her alone, but Christine wasn't naïve enough to think he'd stopped watching her entirely. She'd even entertained the thought that he was doing so in order to make Raoul look bad in her eyes. Raoul certainly hadn't stayed away, even though she'd asked him to. She didn't hold it against him though; he genuinely cared for her and was concerned for her safety.

But what about the Phantom, she wondered. He cared for her too, or she thought he did. His attitudes confused her. Sometimes he seemed like he cared, like he loved her even. But then there were the long periods of silence and the angry outbursts. Christine shivered and pulled the covers higher. Sometimes she felt safe with him, and sometimes she feared for her life. If he cared about her, why did he always get angry with her? With that thought in her mind, she drifted off to sleep.


	12. Getting the Bal Rolling

**Chapter Twelve: Getting the Bal Rolling**

**I don't own Phantom of the Opera. Credit for making me use this chapter title go to Bee. Credit also goes to her for being my 100th reviewer. Thank you _all_ so much!

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**

Getting up the next morning, she quickly dressed and left her room to find some breakfast. Her dreams had been troubling, although she couldn't remember exactly what they had been about. But they left her uneasy and feeling as if she was on the verge of making an important decision. She felt twitchy, and hoped she'd find Meg on her way. Her friend's chatter would surely help distract her.

Walking through the hallways, Christine noticed they were oddly full. Everyone she passed was moving quickly, almost furtively, as if they didn't wish to be in the hall at all. Shocked voices and the hiss of whispered conversation came from behind more then one closed door.

An itch settled along Christine's shoulder blades. Something was wrong, something had everyone scared. She walked faster, hoping Meg would be eating as she usually was. Her friend would know what was going on.

By the time she reached the Opera's café, she was almost quivering with dread. More than once on the way she had heard fragments of conversation—fragments that usually included the word "Phantom."

He had done something, something terrible. And she was probably the cause for it. She looked around and spotted Meg at a corner table with her mother. She hurried over.

The two Girys looked up as she approached. Meg smiled and waved her to the empty chair at the table. To Christine's eye, both women looked worried. Meg was unnaturally pale, she smile a shadow of its usual shine. Even Madame Giry, usually unflappable, had a pinched, worried look to her face.

Christine sat down, accepting the cup of coffee and croissant Meg offered her, but she didn't eat. She looked at Madame Giry and asked, "What happened?"

The ballet mistress met her eyes and said reluctantly, "It's Joseph Buquet. He's dead."

Meg chimed in, as if in confirmation, "He was found strangled." She leaned forward and lowered her voice, "Everyone says the Phantom did it."

Christine swallowed and stared down into her coffee. She had known it was going to be something terrible, but killing a man?

Meg continued, "I heard that Buquet saw the Phantom dropping the chandelier last night and was killed for it."

Madame Giry looked sternly at her daughter, "Silence Meg. Nothing is known for certain. It may have been an accident. Have some tact; Christine was almost injured in that incident."

Across the table, Christine sat dumbly, her brain trying to cope with the news. She knew the Phantom hadn't dropped the chandelier—he couldn't have and still have rescued her—but she had no doubt that he had killed Buquet. She remembered all the tricks that had come close to injuring people, the savage tone in his voice when he was angry.

Maybe there was grain of truth in Meg's rumor. Maybe he had killed Buquet because Buquet had seen him at some point.

She began to tremble. She had done more than see him. She had been to his home, had traveled down his tunnels, ha seen what lay beneath his mask. She closed her eyes and recalled with terrifying clarity his murderous rage when he knew what she had done. What if he decided she knew too much? Would he kill her too?

She realized Madame Giry had been speaking. "I'm sorry, Madame. What did you just say?"

Madame Giry frowned at her worriedly. "I was saying, child, that you looked too pale. I fear this news on top of last night's events is too much for you."

Christine shook her head. "No, I have to know what happened." She looked directly at Madame Giry. "Are we safe?" she asked slowly.

Madame Giry met her eyes without flinching. "Meg, go fetch us more coffee," she commanded without breaking Christine's gaze. Puzzled, Meg left the table. Madame Giry leaned forward slightly. "You are in no danger, my dear, as are most of us here. He doesn't bother if one keeps from prying."

Instead of comforting her, the words filled Christine with foreboding. She had pried more than anyone had dared to before, she was sure. "How can you be sure?" she whispered.

Madame Giry laid her hand on Christine's. "You, out of everyone in this place, have nothing to fear. He—" She broke off as Meg returned, setting back in her seat. "Have you girls decided what you will be for the Bal Masque this year?" she asked lightly.

Completely thrown off balance by the change of topic, Christine simply stared at her.

Meg took up the conversation. "We've been planning, Maman, and looking in the costume rooms. I think I shall go as a swan."

Madame Giry smiled approvingly, "A lovely idea, Meg." She turned her gaze to Christine, "And you Christine?"

Christine blushed and stammered, "Well—"

Meg interrupted her. "We've found the most perfect costume in the world for her, Maman, but she refuses to wear it!"

Madame Giry raised an eyebrow. "And what is this costume?"

Christine was trying to signal her friend to be silent, but Meg refused to capitulate. "It's an angel costume, with wings, and a tiara halo, and everything. It was as if it had been made for her, Maman. All it needs is a white mask."

"An angel," Madame Giry mused, "a nice costume idea, although I don't remember such a one ever being used. I wonder where it came from." Her gaze was sharp, and Christine shifted nervously in her chair.

"I don't know, Madame," she said nervously, although they both knew it for a lie.

Meg broke in, "It was one of the back racks. Something fell over and when I went to pick it up I saw it hanging there. It's perfect."

Christine swallowed miserably. "It's too fine for me," she protested.

Truly, she thought it was. The material, the trimmings, it was all high quality, higher than the Opera would ever use for costumes. And it had fit her perfectly, as if it had been made to her measurements. She had been immediately suspicious of its origins. Although, surely the Phantom wouldn't go through the trouble of finding a costume for her. But a nagging sense that he had kept her from being comfortable in wearing it, and now, after hearing this morning's news, it was the last thing she wanted to wear.

"Too fine for you?" Madame Giry scoffed. "If it was on the costume racks, then it's perfectly free for you to use."

"If you saw it, Maman," Meg said, "you wouldn't believe how she could _not_ wear it."

"An excellent idea, Meg." She cast on eye towards Christine. "Are you finished with your breakfast? Good. I want to take a look at this paragon of costumes myself." She rose from the table, leaving Christine and Meg to scramble after her.

They reached Christine's room, and Christine, reluctantly, fetched the costume from her wardrobe. Meg had insisted she bring it back so no one would find it.

Madame Giry looked over it approvingly. She smiled slightly, "It is indeed perfect for you, Christine. You should not turn it away lightly."

Christine stared at her defeatedly, and nodded her assent. Dully, she knew she should be angry at Madame Giry for continually pushing her towards the Phantom and yet giving her no real answers. She knew she should be frightened by what this strange gesture by the Phantom meant, especially in light of this murder. But instead all she felt was resigned. She was floating in a cloud made of equal parts dread, confusion and inevitability.

The few days left until the masquerade slipped quietly past with Christine receiving no word from the Phantom. Slowly, she fought to push back the fog that had filled her mind. It left icy trails of fear in its place, and she came to think of the masquerade as a sort of breaking point. She felt if she could make it through that, everything would somehow be all right.

Finally, the night arrived. Attired in their costumes, Meg and Christine entered the grand foyer. Glittering crowds of people swirled around, and one side of the room had been set aside for dancing.

They soon melted into the crowd, although many people stopped to stare at them. The two girls made quite a picture. Meg looked very pretty dressed as a swan, but Christine received the most looks. The pink, gauzy gown implied an angel's robes even as it accented her slender figure. The wings, rather than sticking out and being a nuisance, were made so they appeared to be folded down her back—an angel at rest rather than in flight. They were cunningly made mostly out of fabric, in order to be light enough not to hinder Christine's movement. The sparkling tiara and plain white mask completed the ensemble.

Christine felt herself blush under the weight of the stares—especially the jealous ones from some of women. She hadn't meant to cause such a stir; she would have been content to blend in with the crowd.

Then she felt someone at her elbow and Raoul's voice said her name, "Christine."

She slowly turned to face him, inclining her head, "Raoul."

"Christine, you look beautiful. That is without a doubt the most gorgeous costume here. Where did you get it?"

"Meg found it," she said lightly, hoping to keep him from probing deeper. She looked at his costume; he was dressed in some sort of military costume—Christine wasn't sure exactly what it was.

The music for the next dance started up, and Raoul offered her his arm. "Shall we?" he asked. Christine took it with something approaching relief. Maybe if they were dancing he wouldn't bring up subjects she would rather not talk about.

Unfortunately, this was not to be. After they had both fallen into the rhythm of the dance, Raoul started the conversation. "Have you made a decision yet, Christine?"

She looked up in startlement. "Decision? Raoul, I—I don't know what you mean."

He frowned a little. "My offer of marriage. It still stands. Surely you see it would be for the best? I'll always love and protect you, Christine."

She cast her eyes down, pretending to look at their feet. "And all of my reasons for not accepting still stand too. I love you, Raoul, as a dear friend, but don't you see it wouldn't work? I was born and bred for this life Raoul, just as you were born for the life you have."

She risked a glance back up at him. His brows had drawn together and his lips had thinned with determination. Christine felt his hands tighten a little on hers, then loosen. She felt her courage begin to fade. She didn't want to hurt him. She didn't want to hurt anybody. She just wanted to stop being pressured.

She almost spoke up, almost said she would still think about it, but Raoul spoke first.

"It's him, isn't it?" he asked quietly. "It's not me; it's that you're scared of him. Christine, don't you see I could protect you from him? Once out of this place, he couldn't touch either of us."

"No Raoul," she said quickly, "it's not him." She instantly knew this for a lie and continued in a rush. "He's a factor in this, yes. But not the whole problem." She was trembling. Just talking about the Phantom with someone else didn't feel right. She couldn't talk about it, not to Raoul.

Raoul felt the tremors and misinterpreted them. "You're lying!" he declared. His hands once again tightened possessively on hers. "You're scared of him."

The music had come to an end, and Christine took the opportunity to pull away from him. He let her go, hands dangling awkwardly to his sides.

Christine stared back at him and let the silence stretch out between them. Finally she spoke, "I'm not worried about physical harm Raoul. He wouldn't do that _to me_. I just—I just need time to think, about all of this."

Raoul frowned. Behind them, the music started up again, and before he could reply, Jammes appeared at his elbow. She placed her hand on his arm and cooed, "Since Christine isn't moving, I believe this is my dance, my lord. I can be more…entertaining than her." Clinging to his arm, she managed to maneuver him towards the dancing.

Christine had never been as glad to see Jammes as she was then. Seeing Raoul was truly trapping, him being unable to think of a way to politely untangle himself from Jammes, Christine made her way to the edge of the room. She spotted Meg standing with a few other girls, all under the stern gaze of Madame Giry, and veered the other way. She knew they would only question her about Raoul, and she didn't want to face anymore questions.

She didn't know the answers! She didn't know who to trust, who to turn to. Raoul was constantly pulling her away, Madame Giry was constantly pushing her, and the Phantom was constantly hovering over everything. Wings rustling, she fled to a side room that was elegantly furnished as a resting place. Because there was no dancing, there were fewer people here. Avoiding the knots of conversation, she meandered the outskirts of the room, losing herself in her thoughts.

She was so oblivious to her surroundings that it was only by instinct that she stopped short of colliding with another person. Raising her eyes from where they had been trained on the floor, she let them slide up the length of the person in front of her, up long, scarlet-clad legs to the hand held out to her. A hand that she recognized. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open, but before she could react in any other way, a very familiar voice came from above her head.

"May I walk with you, Mademoiselle?"


	13. A Grand Unveiling

**I tried to get this chapter out faster, to make up for the evil ending. Thanks everyone who reviewed! You make me happy.**

**Chapter Thirteen: A Grand Unveiling

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"_May I walk with you, Mademoiselle?"_**

Christine jerked her gaze up the rest of the way, to where golden eyes gleamed at her from under a gruesome skull mask. She took a step back automatically, hands raised in a futile warding gesture, her voice freezing to lie trapped in her throat.

He followed, taking a larger step and putting them even closer together, her pale, thin arms the only barrier between them. Christine forced herself not to take another step—it clearly wouldn't help her. All that she could think was that she had been right. He didn't want to walk with her—he wanted to lead her someplace where… "You're here to kill me aren't you?" she whispered hoarsely.

Staring up at him in terror, she saw his eyes narrow fractionally behind the mask. She gave a strangled gasp of fear and involuntarily took another step back. This time he didn't follow.

"Why would you think that, angel?" His voice slid over her, cooler and smoother than the silk she wore. She shivered, quivering in place like a fragile flower.

She opened her mouth to speak, but couldn't. Nervously wetting her lips, she tried again. "You k-killed Joseph Buquet," she said hoarsely.

There was a pause, and his eyes burned into hers. She started to cry, tears running silently down her pale cheeks. She choked back a sob, "You k-killed him because he s-saw you," she took a shuddering breath, "And I've seen more than he ever did, so you're here to kill me too."

He froze in place. Christine couldn't move; she could only cry while waiting for him to do something. Finally he released a slow breath, but he was still tense. "I killed Buquet—" here Christine gave a breathy cry, "because he dropped the chandelier that almost killed you."

Christine only stared at him, her breaths coming quickly, the tears gluing her mask to her face and making her cheeks sticky. "What?" was all that she could manage to say.

He stepped closer before she had time to think. "Joseph Buquet almost killed you, that's why I killed him. Not because of his stories, and not because he had seen anything—he saw nothing that I did not wish him to see," his voice was disdainful as he spoke of the dead man.

Christine didn't know what to do. Buquet was _dead_, and the Phantom admitted to killing him, almost seemed to take pleasure in the fact. But if what the Phantom said was true… She ended up just staring at the gold buttons on his coat. A cold tear dripping off her chin and onto her collarbone reminded her of what she probably looked like.

She lifted her mask up and scrubbed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. Was it odd that she felt relieved at the news? If Buquet had dropped the chandelier, it cleared the Phantom from any doubt over the affair, and it gave him a reason for the killing. Still, her mind could not quite comprehend all of the revelations, and she continued to wipe away tears to hide her growing unease and confusion.

Suddenly a handkerchief was dangling in front of her. Christine stared at it, startled. He shook it. "Dry you tears, angel." His voice was composed again, soothing away some of her fears.

Numbly she took it, once again timidly daring to look up at his face. The macabre mask of course betrayed no emotion, but behind it his eyes gleamed at her. Unable to look directly at him for long, she couldn't read what emotions they contained. She ducked her head again and tentatively dabbed at her cheeks with the handkerchief.

"T-thank you," she stammered, "But why would he d-do that? Drop the chandelier, I mean." She _wanted_ to believe him but couldn't just forget all of her fears. He had done some pretty dangerous tricks before, after all. Her hand fell to her side, clutching the handkerchief desperately.

"I don't—" he began, but the music in the main room had stopped, and suddenly there were people in the doorway.

Christine turned to look at the noise automatically and paled when she recognized Raoul among them. He was with the managers, and Jammes was still trailing behind them, clearly trying to regain Raoul's attention. Her heart sped up with a jolt that sent a cold shock through her body. She looked back over at the Phantom—maybe he would have disappeared like he had done before. But he was still there. He was looking at the group just entering the room too, and Christine didn't like his tense posture at all. She shrank back, hoping that Raoul somehow wouldn't see them.

Unfortunately, his gaze lit on her almost immediately. He started towards her, the managers and Jammes trailing behind him. Christine tensed, this was the last situation she wanted to be in at this moment.

He was halfway across the room before his step faltered, clearly having noticed she was standing with someone. His eyes narrowed, and he looked from her pale face to the menacing mask of the man she stood by. He continued to close the distance between them.

But before he could speak, or Christine could say anything, the Phantom spoke up beside her. "Ah, Monsieur le Vicomte, looking for someone? Don't worry, I was keeping her company."

Christine's stomach plummeted, but she was helpless to stop this confrontation. She could only stand rooted to the floor and watch the events unfold.

Raoul paled. "You!" he said, "Get away from her, you monster!"

Christine was the only one close enough to see the slight tremor that went through the Phantom at Raoul's words, but then he was still, standing as tense as before.

She looked between the two men with wide eyes. This was a scene out of her nightmares, and she didn't want to be involved in it, especially not in front of so many people.

The Phantom spoke up again, his voice carrying a distinct threat now. "No need to be concerned for her safety, Monsieur. I wouldn't harm _her_." Both Christine and Raoul noticed the emphasis he placed on the last word, although she doubted anyone else did. He continued, "I merely came to deliver this." From somewhere in his cloak he pulled a sheaf of papers. "My opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_."

He tossed it towards Firmin, who barely caught it. He continued, "You will put it on next, with Miss Daaé in the lead."

Both managers exclaimed and started looking at the papers. Raoul however, was not distracted. He stepped forward aggressively. "Did you think you could just come here, make demands, and then just leave again?" he challenged.

The Phantom laughed. It wasn't a pleasant sound, and Christine shivered. "The question is," he said mockingly, "is whether you could stop me, monsieur."

Raoul rushed forward just as the Phantom tossed something to the ground between them. There was a flash and a large puff of smoke. Screams and shouting broke out from the gathered crowd. Christine, turned to the side away from the smoke, felt someone brush by her and froze, but then she heard a _click_ from behind her. She spun around and found herself staring into one of the large mirrors decorating the perimeter of the room.

In the reflection, she could see that the smoke was dissipating quickly and people were milling about in shocked confusion. She could also see Raoul approaching her and turned to face him.

To her surprise, he didn't shout at her or pester her—he merely folded her in his arms. She let him, too shell-shocked to protest or worry what the Phantom would say, and leaned into his warmth. She couldn't cope with what was happening, with what the Phantom wanted of her, and she was scared of what he would do if she didn't figure it out. He had already attacked one person and killed another on her behalf. She shuddered.

Raoul's arms tightened, and he whispered, "It's alright, Christine. It'll be alright. I don't know why he's making these demands of you, but I promise I will protect you from him."

_Yes, but who will stop him from hurting you?_ Christine thought to herself. She didn't know the reasoning behind the Phantom's actions either. So many times his actions and violent anger had frightened her badly, but then he came back with times that made her re-question her entire perception of him—like when he had given her the space she'd needed to think, or when he'd rescued her from the chandelier.

"I think, monsieur, that it would be best if Miss Daaé left now." Madame Giry's voice came from behind them. "The ball is over anyway."

Raising her head to look around, Christine agreed. Knots of people stood around, gossiping eagerly. The managers were off to one side, examining the new opera. She knew she should leave before anyone got around to questioning her.

Pulling away from Raoul, she turned to look at Madame Giry, whose face, as usual, betrayed nothing. "Yes, I think that is a good idea. Good evening, Raoul."

Raoul hesitated, and she knew he wanted to ask her to leave again. She held her breath and was relieved when he merely said, "You'll watch over her, Madame Giry?"

"Of course, Monsieur," she answered serenely, "she will be quite safe tonight."

He only paused a second more before taking her hand. Bowing over it, he brushed his lips lightly across her skin. "Good night then, Christine. I'll come back tomorrow to see what is to be done with these new demands."

Christine allowed herself to be led out by Madame Giry, throwing one last look over her shoulder at Raoul. He was heading towards the managers with a determined look on his face.

Turning back to Madame Giry, she studied the woman's straight back and wondered if she had the courage to ask what she wanted desperately to ask. There was no one around, and after the events of the last couple of days, she had to know.

"Madame Giry," she started nervously.

The ballet mistress swung around, and Christine stopped. Wetting her lips, she tried again, "Madame Giry, can I ask you about the Phantom?"

For almost the first time she could remember, Christine saw Madame Giry look unsure. After a pause, the ballet mistress spoke. "I'm not surprised, anymore, that you would ask about _him_," she said carefully, "but I do not think it is my place to say anything about him. It is his right to reveal such things, if he wishes. Now come." She turned decisively and started down the hallway again.

Christine followed her as she led the way back to Christine's room. Quite suddenly, she found herself alone in her empty chamber, with only the soft glow of the lamps for company. Numbly, she began to undress, catching up her robe and nightgown and stepping behind the screen to change, but her mind remained overflowing with thoughts.

_Do I dare trust him?_ She thought as she started to unlace her gown. _Do I believe what he says, or what he does? And if what he does—which side of him to I trust?_ The wings hanging down her back hindered her, but she finally succeeded in unfastening the gown. Drawing it down and stepping carefully out of it, she hung it up.

She couldn't resist running her fingers down the wings again. _Why would he do this for me? Why would he still care about me after what I did to him?_ Memories rose up of the night she had unmasked him, and she shuddered. His face and his anger were still clear in her mind. It all blended together to paint that as one of the worst moments of her life.

Grimly, she forced herself not to turn away from those memories. She had to figure out who he was, why he acted like he did, and what she should do.

The fact was, she should run away as fast as she could. Part of her wanted to. Part of her remembered what he looked like, remembered all that he had done, and wanted to run away. She didn't know where she would go if she left, what she would do, unless she agreed to Raoul's offer and married him.

That offer suddenly seemed appealing. It was a safe option. Raoul cared for her, and she knew she could have a happy and comfortable life with him.

But part of her also clung fiercely to everything that she had here. This is where she had lived ever since her father's death. Her friends were here, friends she was certain she wouldn't be allowed to keep as Raoul's life. Her memories were here. Her _home_ was here.

Christine realized that she was till standing in her shift and quickly put on her nightgown. She would not figure out anything standing in her room. Things were too complicated for that. She needed to talk to Madame Giry. The older woman had as much said that she knew more about what was going on, more about the Phantom. The way that she had said it was his place to say more led Christine to believe that Madame Giry had a closer connection to him.

Coming out from behind the screen, her eyes flicked from the mirror to the door. Madame Giry had already refused to talk, but she couldn't let it go. Before she could reconsider, she was pulling on her robe and stealing silently out the door.


	14. Mutual Confessions

**Sorry for the long wait. I've been sitting on the first three-fourths of this chapter for a while, and I meant to update two weeks ago, but then the weeks of DOOM descended on me, and every single class decided they needed to get in one more project before finals.**

**Thank you to Jenn for giving this a read-through, and thanks to the random girl in my creative writing class that told me I wrote good dialogue. It had nothing to do with this chapter, but it made me happy.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera.

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**Chapter Fourteen: Mutual Confessions**

Christine stole quietly down the hallway. Luckily, no one was out to see her—they were all either still at the Masquerade or holed up in their rooms against the possibility of the Phantom stalking about. After tonight, no one would walk the halls alone. Except for her.

Christine was frightened as she walked, but at least she knew that Death didn't lurk behind her. She may not know his motives, but the Phantom had had plenty of opportunities to kill her and hadn't.

Still, as she walked quietly through the empty hallways she couldn't resist looking behind her every now and then. The chill air raised the hair on her arms despite the robe, and she shivered both from nerves and from cold. He wouldn't kill her, but he would not be happy if he knew her errand, Christine didn't doubt this. The thought was enough to send her jumping at every imagined rustle of fabric from behind her.

Finally arriving at Madame Giry's room, the journey seeming to take an eternity longer than normal, she knocked quickly, before she changed her mind. There was a pause, then the sound of someone getting up to answer the door. The ballet mistress opened it, blinking in surprise. "Why Christine, what…"

Christine stepped forward to prevent her from closing it again. Madame Giry had also removed her costume, and was wearing her robe and a sleepy expression, so Christine spoke hastily while she still had the advantage of surprise, "Madame Giry, I need answers…about the Phantom, and I think you're the only one that can help me."

The older woman's sleepiness vanished like a candle flame, a blank shutter coming down over her face. "I said before Christine, I cannot—"

"Please!" she burst out, "I have to know. I have a right to know. I just can't go on like this, in the dark about everything!"

Madame Giry, in the act shooing her out to shut the door again, paused, clearly moved by Christine's plea. "If he were to know," she murmured.

Sensing the hesitation, Christine pressed on desperately, "He's probably not around, not after what just happened. He'll probably disappear for weeks again, like usual." The last was said with a trace of bitterness. It was true, though. Every time he showed up or did something public he would disappear for weeks, leaving her to deal with the consequences, the looks, the whispers. Leaving her more confused than before.

Christine pushed back those thoughts though, when she saw Madame Giry waver once again. Laying all of her figurative cards on the table, she quietly but firmly said, "And if he is here, he should come out now, and talk to me himself." The statement hung almost solidly in the air, a challenge. Both woman tensed, waiting for something to happen, waiting for him to show up. But Christine had apparently gambled correctly, the Phantom did not appear, and Madame Giry looked at her with a tinge more respect.

"Very well then," she said, "come inside and I will tell you the little I know."

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. For a moment the weight left her shoulders. She was going to get information. For once since she had been thrust into the role in _Hannibal,_ she was going to know what was going on.

Madame Giry gave her a sharp glance at the sigh, but waved her into the room and towards a chair. Christine followed her eagerly and sat down, trying not to fidget. Madame Giry sat across from her, staring intensely at the air over Christine's shoulder. Knowing she was likely trying to gather her thoughts together, Christine tried to be patient.

Finally, slowly, as if drawing it from whatever safe she had hidden it in, Madame Giry spoke. "I first met Erik, the man you know as the Phantom, when I was still a dancer here, many years ago."

_Erik._ She had a name to put with him now, a name besides Phantom or Angel, a real name. It felt odd, she decided, odd to think of him as having a name. It made him seem more real, more like an actual person and not shrouded in mystery.

With a start, she realized that she had missed more of what Madame Giry was saying. She pulled her mind away from contemplating the revelation of his name, and concentrated on the older woman's story.

"—filthy cage. When enough of us had gathered, the old gypsy entered the cage. The boy—Erik—tried to scramble away, but…" Here Madame Giry paused again, her eyes closing briefly, before continuing, "But the gypsy beat him until he was still. Then he reached down and ripped off the sack. Under it…under it…"

Madame Giry's voice trailed off, and her eyes tightened at the memory. Suddenly, her gaze jerked up to Christine's face, her skin blanching white.

Christine, drawn in by the story, had shuddered at the memory of his face. Even after so many encounters with him as the Phantom while wearing the mask, she was only beginning to accept what she had seen under it without outright horror. The moment of silence stretched out longer than she expected, and she suddenly realized that Madame Giry didn't know she had seen his face—she thought she had about revealed the Phantom's—Erik's—biggest secret.

She hesitated, aware that she what she was about to say revealed more than she liked about the depths of her dealings with the Phantom, and managed to whisper, "I've seen it too…what's under his mask."

Madame Giry's face changed from horror to shock, finally settling on amazement, the color slowly coming back to her face. "You've seen it?" she asked, "He showed it to you?"

"N-no," Christine admitted reluctantly, casting her eyes downward, "he was asleep, and I—I took it off of him."

There was more silence, and Christine looked up to see what Madame Giry was thinking. The older woman was staring at her strangely.

"You took off his mask, and he did not—he was not angry?" she asked incredulously.

"He was angry, but he just took me back to my room and then disappeared. The notes came, of course, but I did not see or speak to him again until _Il Muto_."

"And you stayed here, and said nothing to anyone." It was a quiet statement, a gentle probe into Christine's reasons.

Feeling too committed to keep her silence now, Christine drew in a deep breath and said, "Yes, I c-couldn't just leave. I didn't know where I would go either. It seemed…safer to just stay here and say nothing."

Madame Giry was quiet for another few moments, clearly thinking things over. Christine couldn't contain her nerves anymore and shifted nervously in her chain. The ballet mistress paid her no attention. Christine settled for smoothing her robe in her lap, the repetitive motion somewhat soothing her.

"You say you saw him after _Hannibal_? And you were not in your room when you did so?"

Christine jumped slightly at the sudden question, and then froze, realizing that she had revealed even more than she had thought she had by her words. There was no knowing what Madame Giry was thinking, but it suddenly seemed damning in Christine's eyes. She had been alone with him, in his home, where no one else could find them. Unable to look Madame Giry in the eye, she murmured, "Yes, he came to me after the first performance."

She finally dared to peek up at Madame Giry, and found her starring steadily at her. She blushed furiously and continued. "He took me to his house," she faltered, "It was…under the Opera."

Madame Giry's face never changed, so Christine assumed that the location of his house was of no surprise to her. However, her stare still didn't change, so Christine continued again, leaving out most of the details, "He had me sing for him, for a while, and then he sang for me. I fell asleep and when I woke up I was in another room. I went back into the first room, and he was there, asleep. I…I…" Christine stuttered to a stop, not really wanting to tell anymore after that. She drew in a breath. "I took off his mask," she said as firmly as she could.

The statement fell between them, as cold and hard as stone. For some reason, it seemed like the culmination of the entire conversation. Everything hinged on that one statement, that one fact. She had taken off his mask. Still trying to hide her eyes, Christine waited for Madame Giry to say something.

But Madame Giry still said nothing. "Madame Giry," she prompted, "what should I do?"

Madame Giry finally looked up. She sighed heavily. "I don't know. He hasn't stopped appearing since you removed his mask. If you are sure you don't want to leave?" She looked at Christine, who shook her head, "Then I'm not sure there is anything you can do. He will not listen to me, if I could even find him."

Christine swallowed and nodded. She was almost shaking in reaction to this conversation. "But you don't think," she had to pause to wet her lips, "you don't think that I'm in danger here? Sometimes, a lot of the time, he scares me, because I don't' know what's…what's going to happen."

Madame Giry leaned forward and patted her hand. "You are in no more danger now, my dear, than you were before _Hannibal_. Haven't you been taking lessons from him all of these years?"

Christine's eyes rounded. "How did you know that? I haven't told anyone. He told me not to say a single word to anyone, and I haven't!" She realized she was babbling and stopped.

Madame Giry leaned back and folded her hands in her lap. "He told me about them so I could make sure you were free for them. He was quite insistent about it," she said tartly. "That was the last meaningful contact I've had with him."

Suddenly Christine recalled Madame Giry's story. "How did he—did he come to be here, from the faire, after the man took off his mask?"

Madame Giry tilted her head then continued with her story. "When the Gypsy took off the mask, the crowd of people began jeering. Most of the other dancers I was with were disgusted—they turned away and left the tent. Some people threw coins; the cruder people threw refuse, pelting the boy with muck and insults. I couldn't take my eyes off of him, crouching at the feet of the Gypsy, trying to hide his face despite the man's cruel grip on his patchy hair."

She paused and drew in a deep breath. "I couldn't stop looking at his face. I couldn't believe it was real, surely it had to be some gypsy trick. The other people began to leave, and suddenly I was alone in the tent, still staring. The Gypsy released Erik and stooped to pick up the coins. I finally turned to go too, because I was embarrassed to be alone there. As I turned, I saw Erik pull the sack back over his head. After a few steps, I heard a choking sound. I turned back around and saw Erik strangling the Gypsy, with a rope from the side of the cage."

Christine paled, and she made a small, choked sound of surprise. Madame Giry, though, continued without stopping, "When the Gypsy was dead, Erik looked up and saw me staring. I don't know what he would have done, but a woman came into the tent and ran back out again, crying "Murder." I brought him back here to get away from them."

Christine's eyes were wide, and her fingernail were biting into her palms. "You brought him back here after you saw him kill a man?"

She got a stern glance. "Would you have left him there? To be killed by a mob for trying to escape a horrible situation that he was forced to live in?"

Christine blushed. "No, you're right," she murmured, "I d-didn't think."

Madame Giry nodded, "When I saw him standing there, starving, bruised and bloody, I found myself holding out my hand and shouting at him to come with me now, or the mob would kill us both. I don't know why he trusted me, but we found ourselves scurrying through the shadows back to the Opera House." Now she smiled faintly, "Unlike with you girls, there were no stories of angry ghosts to keep us from exploring the Opera House from top to bottom. So I had discovered the natural caverns in the cellars—the ones you were in. I took him there; I fed him, clothed him, gave him as much care as I could. He took the unseen parts of the Opera for his own, and it became understood between us that the caves were his, and I shouldn't go there much anymore. I never had his full trust. Then one day he became the Opera Ghost, and not the boy I had helped anymore." She gave Christine a shrewd glance, "That was the day he informed me he was beginning _your _lessons."

Christine blushed even more furiously, feeling her skin tingling. She didn't know what to think. The whole story seemed so unreal. She couldn't imagine the man she knew being forced to live in a cage, or being put on display. She could understand now why he had built such a home under the Opera. What must it have taken for him to show himself to people? She realized that silence had fallen between them, and that Madame Giry was staring at her consideringly.

"I've told you everything I know, my dear," the ballet mistress said, still looking at Christine.

She hastily stood up, readjusting her robe and wrapping it tighter around herself. Her eye caught a clock sitting on a low table, and she realized how long she had been there. She needed to go and sort through everything that she learned. And now that Madame Giry had finished her story, Christine didn't want to have to tell about what had happened to her anymore than she already had. "Thank you, Madame," she said with a quick dip of her head," it's—it's late, and I've kept you up. I—I should go." She darted a quick look at the door.

Madame Giry stood up slowly. "I think this talk was…informative for both of us, Christine. I don't know if I have said too much, certainly it's more than he would want. But I think we have both heard enough for the night," she said, walking over to the door and holding it open for Christine. Her eyes caught and held Christine's for a moment, and Christine's throat dried, but the ballet mistress merely nodded and said, "Good night."

Christine left quickly, grateful to escape without further inquiry, although she knew that Madame Giry would probably question her later. Her journey back through the corridors mirrored the first, except now she was jumpy for a different reason. There was always the chance that he _had_ heard them talking, and Christine was sure he would not be happy about this breach into his past. _Not happy?_ _He's going to be livid,_ she thought, her mind going back to anger over her questions about his home. If he was defensive about where he lived now, she didn't want to think about how he would react to her knowing where he had came from.

And now that she knew so much about him, Christine wasn't sure she could see him again without revealing it, especially his name. For so long he had been a mere shadow, a vague presence that she had alternately thought of as either her Angel or the Phantom. But now he had a name, and it made her perception of him different. Now he was more real…an actual person.

She eyed the shadows as she walked quickly back, wondering what she would do if she saw him. But Erik never showed up. No phantoms of any kind stepped out of the shadows, and she got back to her room without seeing even a single suspicious shadow. Nonetheless, she scurried into her room with relief, shutting to door behind her and leaning back against it.

After a moment, she straightened, shrugging out of her robe and hanging it up. Her mind was beginning to numb, blocking out most of what Madame Giry had told her. She couldn't process most of it. For now it was enough to know that Madame Giry had trusted him. It was enough to know that he had come here as a child. It was enough to know his name.

She was tired now, and she gratefully crawled into her bed. She curled into a ball, pulling the covers up to her chin. Maybe sleep would sort everything out in her head. Maybe she would know what to do, what to think of him. Before she could do more than marvel again at the fact she knew his name, she had dropped off into a deep sleep, her mind and body exhausted from the events of the day.


	15. A Terrible Strain

**I'm really sorry for the long delay. There was dead week, and finals, and moving. But I did manage to go see Phantom three times, so I've got a fresh burst of inspiration. And now that it's summer, I've got nothing but time to write. **

**This chapter is dedicated to my stage door stalking companions and inspired by the Phantom touring cast, who are all amazing.**

**I don't own Phantom of the Opera.

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**Chapter Fifteen: A Terrible Strain**

The next day seemed an eternity removed from the events of the day before. Christine woke up late and buried herself in her normal routine of getting ready for the day, not allowing herself to dwell on the feelings that roiled in the pit of her stomach.

Even lunch with, eaten with the Girys, did not bring those thoughts to the surface. Neither Madame Giry nor Christine made any allusions to the night before, content to let Meg guide the conversation. Christine kept her eyes down and picked her croissant to bits, carefully not looking at Madame Giry, lest she begin to think about the night before. But the meal passed without anymore incident than Meg making salacious comments about the masquerade costumes from yesterday.

"Meg Giry, we don't speculate on such things!" Madame Giry was eyeing her daughter sternly.

"But Maman," Meg protested, "It's true. You saw Jamme's costume. It couldn't have been an inch lower without being indecent. If you ask me, she saw how successful Sorelli's been with her Comte, and now she's trying to the same with the brother!"

Christine froze, croissant raised to take a bite, praying that Meg just let it drop after that little tidbit.

Unfortunately, her friend continued, "Did you see how she ambushed him away from Christine? She's—"

"Meg!" Madame Giry said sharply. Meg subsided under her mother's glare.

"Sorry Maman," she mumbled, "But Christine, don't you agree?"

Christine realized she was still frozen and hastily took a bite of the croissant to give herself time to compose herself. She had forgotten that Meg didn't know about Raoul's proposal—she hadn't been able to bring herself to talk about anything with Meg yet. Looking at her friend, Christine could see only friendly indignation that Christine's "catch" was in danger of being stolen."

"She was rather…forward," she managed to say, with a decent amount of calm.

Meg laughed. "But it didn't work. Did you see his face when he left the dance floor? He doesn't care a fig for her, and the only one that couldn't see it was Jammes!"

Christine shook her head, and Meg started to trail off. "You weren't in there though, were you?" she said slowly, "You were in the other room…"

Madame Giry cut in, "I don't think we need to continue this discussion now, Meg. Talking about him isn't wise." Christine looked down at her plate, suddenly glad that Madame Giry was there.

Ten minutes later, they were interrupted by the presence of one of the very junior dancers standing at Madame Giry's elbow. Madame Giry stopped eating and calmly turned to look at the girl, who was wringing her hands restlessly. "Yes child?" she asked, "Stop fidgeting, stand up straight, and tell me what you want."

The girl hid her hands behind her back. "The managers sent me to find you, Ma'am," she said in a tiny voice, "They want to speak with you and Christine."

Madame Giry frowned. "Thank you, child," she told the girl, who curtsied and fled. She sighed, "I might have guessed they'd want to discuss last night. Come along then, Christine. Meg, you stay here and finish your meal."

Christine trembled as she got up and followed the other woman. She didn't know how she would answer questions about last night, and she was deathly afraid she was going to let something slip she shouldn't know.

Madame Giry glanced back to look at her, and then stopped when she saw Christine's pale face. "They likely just want to go over the opera he left, my dear—confirm your part. Just stay quiet and let me talk if they ask questions," she advised. Christine gulped and nodded, meekly following when Madame Giry turned and continued down the hallway.

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Raoul frowned at the pair of notes he held in his hand. They were identical to the one that had been delivered to him that morning in every way. Same parchment-like paper, same handwriting, same broken skull seal. Who was this madman? Despite having seen him twice now, he didn't have an idea as to who he was really. A power-mad employee? A deranged opera fanatic? 

He remembered last night, the man's tall menacing figure and sinister skull mask. It had been his first clear look at the man—he hadn't been able to see much of him when the Phantom had attacked him. The man who had threatened many, almost strangled him, cut down the chandelier, and killed a man was back demanding things. Raoul shook his head and frowned at the first note again, and he was making demands about _trombone player?_

Clearly this "Phantom" was insane.

Across the desk from him, the managers sat huddled together over the libretto they had been given, muttering together about various parts of it. Raoul frowned again. They were more concerned about the damned opera, and their pocketbooks, than the threat posed to people's lives. A man had died, and they seemed more frightened of Carlotta leaving again than of the danger to Christine.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, the door opened and Madame Giry swept in, followed by Christine. She looked pale, but she had looked pale last night too, even before _he_ had appeared. When she entered, her eyes darted over to him, and then she lowered them back to the floor.

The managers looked up. "Ah yes, just who we needed to see, please sit down ladies," Firmin said, gesturing towards two chairs. Raoul, who had risen on their entrance, sat back down, and reached across to lay the notes back down on the desk.

Madame Giry sat down imperiously, gesturing Christine to the other chair. Raoul kept his eyes on Christine as she sat. She seemed very fragile, and Raoul knew she had to be worried about this new turn of events. She was the main focus of them, after all. The Phantom seemed determined to thrust her into the middle of everything. Raoul thought back to how she had looked last night, standing beside _him_, and he vibrated with anger. She had been trembling then, plainly scared to be there. What claim did this Phantom think he had on her? By what right did he make these demands of her? Raoul vowed that he would buffer Christine from these events as much as he could. Even if she wouldn't marry him yet—he still had hopes she'd change her mind—he wouldn't abandon her for it. He was still her friend. She felt that much for him at least.

He was interrupted from his musings by Firmin clearly his throat. "Ah yes, Miss Daaé," he began, and Raoul reluctantly turned to look at him, "As I am sure you've gathered by this time you have secured a large—"

He was cut off by the door being violently flung open. Carlotta swept in, followed closely by Piangi.

"Outrage!" she shouted, waving a thick sheaf of papers angrily, "This whole thing is outrageous! Have you seen the size of my part? I will not stand for it! I will not, I tell you!" She sailed across the room and came to rest directly in front of the desk.

Firmin grimaced, and André held up a placating hand. "Signora please. If you would just—"

This time Piangi spoke up from his position at Carlotta's shoulder. "Insult! That's what this is! An insult!"

"Not you as well!" Firmin said loudly, slapping his hand on the desk as he stood up. "Please! Let's have some calm!"

Carlotta sniffed and turned, catching sight of Christine as she did so. "Ah, here's our precious little singer now, come to make sure of her part." Christine froze. Carlotta spun back around, "She doesn't have the voice. I've had years of training! Years of experience! But you are really going to put this…this…_chit_ on instead.

"Signora, if you would just calm—" Raoul began to despair of the managers ever finishing a sentence as Carlotta interrupted yet again.

"She's probably behind this whole thing! She just wants my position."

"How dare you!"

Everyone slowly turned to look at Christine. She was standing now, looking intensely at Carlotta. "You evil woman," she continued, taking a step towards Carlotta. "How dare you suggest that I had anything to do with this!"

There was a moment of astonished silence. Raoul guessed that no one else had seen this side of Christine before—small, but spitting like an upset cat. He had only seen her like this once, that night on the roof, and it had shocked him to the core when it had happened. Not only had she refused his proposal—she had actually been angry at him! She hadn't backed down then, despite his best efforts, and it looked like she wasn't going to back down now either.

Carlotta was turning bright red. "Why you little—" she began venomously. Raoul half stood, ready to charge to Christine's defense, but André beat him to it. He was around the desk and between the two women in a flash.

"If we could all _calm down_," he said placatingly, hands out as if he expected them to leap on each other, "Please, sit down."

Christine nodded once, and returned to her chair silently, back stiff. Carlotta sniffed disdainfully took the chair André offered her. Raoul relaxed back into his seat.

Firmin cleared his throat. "Now, the—ah—Phantom has demanded that we put Miss Daaé in the lead of this new opera," he rifled through the stack of papers in front of him, "into the role of Aminta." Both Carlotta and Christine started to say something, but he cut them off with a sharp glance and continued, "And, after deliberation, we have decided to comply with his demands. We can't afford not to."

Carlotta and Christine spoke up again, both of them standing up. Raoul protested too. "You're agreeing to this?" he asked incredulously. He hadn't thought they were actually going to, or that they would back down to Carlotta, but it appeared last night had frightened them more than he thought.

Carlotta's voice, though, drowned out both of them. "Christine Daaé can never replace me, even in this…this farce of an opera! I won't stand for it!" she shouted, stepping forward again.

Christine was staring at Carlotta in anger, her eyes snapping, small hands clenched tightly in her skirts. She opened her mouth, but Madame Giry motioned for her to be silent. She subsided immediately, although she didn't sit down. To Raoul's eyes, she looked about to collapse at any second.

Madame Giry stood up now, slowly. She fixed her steady gaze on Carlotta. "Would you speak that way in the presence of the composer?" she said harshly.

But Carlotta didn't back down. "Well the composer is not here, is he?"

"Are you sure of that, Signora?"

There was total silence as they all looked around. Christine had flinched violently at Madame Giry's words, and had moved to stand beside her chair. Her hands clutched the back tightly. She alone didn't crane her head around to peer in the corners.

Raoul looked at her in concern. She didn't look petrified that the Phantom might be listening, she didn't look mad like she had just seconds ago, she just looked stressed. Like this meeting was straining her past her limits. Raoul cursed everyone, especially the dammed Phantom, for doing this to her. There had to be someway to get out of this situation. If only they could catch the Phantom, arrest him, then things would go back to normal.

His eyes fell on the pile of notes on the desk, and an idea came to him. "Gentlemen, Ladies," he began, "Even the Phantom, if you're listening, which I doubt." Christine jerked her head up to stare at him with wide eyes. Everyone turned to look at him curiously. He continued, "He's only a man! A madman, but still a man, and he can't be everywhere. And if he is listening, well, maybe he'll take this to heart and leave. It seems we are missing a very obvious way to catch him." He leaned forward earnestly, "He wants us to put on _his_ opera, and so we will. And if Christine is in the lead, he'll be sure to attend!"

Firmin's eyes lit up. "Yes! We'll lock all the doors, post guards…"

"Armed guards," André interjected.

Firmin nodded, "Yes, of course armed guards. And then, when the curtain falls…"

"We'll have him," Raoul finished with satisfaction. They would lock down the theater and scour it until they had him.

"Madness!" Madame Giry exclaimed, "This is his theater, and you think you can catch him with this? It will never work."

She began to argue with the managers, not backing down in her certainty that the plan would not work. Raoul was about to join in when Christine's voice came from the side.

"I won't do it."

Only Raoul and Madame Giry heard her at first. They turned to look at her, and she repeated it louder. "I won't do it. I won't sing it."

Now everyone was staring at her.

"But Miss Daaé, it's your duty to!" André exclaimed.

Carlotta sneered in Christine's direction. "She's backing out, now that she has an actual job to do."

Firmin stood up. "Miss Daaé, I _insist_ that you take on the role," he said sternly.

Christine shrank back from the combined attack, especially Firmin's. She looked so pale and unsteady that Raoul quickly got up and crossed the room. He took a hold of her upper arms and guided her down into her chair. She meekly let him. Kneeling in front of her, he slid his hands down her arms and took her hands in his. They were cold, and they trembled slightly.

"Raoul, I'm frightened," she said, speaking quietly, as if everyone else wasn't there. "Don't make me do this. I can't. I just can't."

"Why?" he asked probingly, looking at her intently, "You're our best hope."

Her face blanched a shade paler; this close, Raoul could see the tension running through her. This must be a terrible strain on her, he knew, but he hadn't thought she'd be this overwrought. "He's everywhere…I can't…" She burst into tears, and Raoul quickly gathered her against him, astonished to see her break down after the display of anger earlier. She buried her face in his coat, hands clutching his arms. Raoul put his arms around her, tucking her head under his chin and rocking her gently. This wasn't strictly proper, he knew, but she was his oldest friend, and she needed him. He didn't think anyone in this office was going to gossip about him and risk losing his family's patronage.

She was mumbling against his coat. Suddenly she pulled away from him, becoming aware that everyone was staring at them.

Unfortunately, Firmin chose that moment to start again. "Miss Daaé, surely you see that you must sing!"

Christine stood up so fast she nearly tripped over the chair. "I'm sorry," was all she said, and then she fled the room before anyone could stop her.

Madame Giry stood up. "I will go after her," she said. She looked over at Raoul, who had leapt to his feet. "No," she said before he began, "You stay here, Monsieur. I will speak to her first."

Raoul could only nod helplessly as she swept out of the room. He wanted to go find Christine, find out what was really worrying her. There had to be more. He needed to get her out of this place, away from this building and all of its ghosts. Then maybe he could help her see sense, figure out why she was protecting that madman. He had to have something against her—Raoul had thought it all out and could come up with no other reason why she would stay when it was clear she had had direct contact with the Phantom.

Firmin cleared his throat—a habit beginning to get on Raoul's nerves—and he turned to fine tuning their plans. He would find Christine after Madame Giry had had a chance to talk to her.


	16. Ghosts from the Past

**I'm sorry this chapter took so long. I've been writing, just not this, as you can see from the other things I've posted. But I'm remotivated and on track again.**

**Thanks for this chapter go to bee, whose beta skills really smoothed this out. And thanks to everyone who is still reading this even with the fitful update schedule! **

**Chapter Sixteen: Ghosts from the Past

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Christine fled though the halls towards her room. She wouldn't stay here another minute, with all of these suspicions and rumors and plans flying everywhere around her. They all wanted her to do something, or thought she had already done something, but the truth was she didn't know what was going on at all. She was being dragged forward by events, tugged this way and that, and now she was presented with a choice she didn't know how to make.

She rounded a corner and ran smack into Meg. Both girls shrieked in startlement, and Meg had to put a hand on the wall to steady herself. "Christine, you frightened the life out of me," she said reproachfully, "Where are you going? How was the meeting?"

Christine, steadying herself on the wall too, hesitated before replying. "Walk with me back to my room and I'll tell you," she said in a rush, "I'm going to the cemetery and I want to leave before anyone finds me." She walked around Meg and continued to her room; Meg followed.

Her friend asked in a concerned voice, "What happened? Why don't you want anyone to find you? I don't understand."

Christine shook her head. "You know the Phantom wants me to be the lead in his opera, right?" Meg nodded and Christine continued, still walking fast, "Raoul and the managers want me to do it—so they can spring a trap on him."

"But that's good!" Meg blurted, trying to keep up with her friend, "The Phantom won't trouble about you any more and we won't have to worry!"

Christine came to an abrupt halt and Meg almost ran into her. Christine wheeled around. "Meg, the Phantom will find out about their plan—maybe he already knows about it. It's not going to work."

"But you—" Meg began, but Christine quickly cut her off.

"If I go along with it, if I help them try to catch him, he'll know! He'll know I'm helping to betray him. How do you think he's going to react?" That wasn't all of it but it was a very real fear and as close to the truth as she could tell Meg right now.

Meg's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. "Oh, Christine…you can't do it then. He'll kill you!"

Christine gave a small sob before she could stop herself. "But they'll make me do it – Raoul, the managers – they all want me to sing and they'll make me do it." She turned away and continued down the hall.

"What are you going to do?"

Christine glanced over at her friend's worried face as she hurried beside her. "I don't know," she said honestly, "I'm going to visit my father's grave and pray for guidance. It's all I can do right now."

Reaching her room, Christine opened the door and Meg followed her inside, watching as she crossed the room to get her cloak. "Couldn't you tell Raoul that you're in danger?" Meg ventured hesitantly, "He adores you. Surely he wouldn't make you sing it if you told him."

Christine froze, and then began fumbling with the ties of her cloak "No, I can't," she faltered, not sure how much she wanted to say, but a quick look at her friend convinced her to tell more. Meg was almost as pale as Christine and was visibly concerned; out of all the people Christine knew here, Meg was the only one who had no personal motives or interests in this situation. "I can't go to Raoul because he…asked me to marry him and I turned him down."

Meg's mouth formed a surprised "o". "He asked you to marry him?" she squeaked, her whole face a picture of shock, "And you refused him? Oh Christine, why?"

Christine sighed and resolutely finished knotting the cloak strings. "I don't know, Meg, it just wasn't right. Anyway, I can't go to him about this—he'll just use it as a reason to pressure me into accepting." Not that he would force her, but he was very persistent. Her calm was crumbling fast. She gave Meg a wavering smile, "I just need to think. I'll be back later."

She turned towards the door but Meg's voice stopped her. "Christine, wait!" Christine slowly turned back around to see Meg biting her lip in concern. Christine waited and Meg finally said, "Just…be careful. I couldn't stand it if you were hurt from any of this."

Christine nodded silently and then left before her friend had time to think of anything else to say. This time she moved swiftly but with more caution and she didn't encounter anyone on her way out.

Finally exiting the opera, she hastily requested a carriage from the sullen stableman the opera employed to see to the small stables. After a nerve-wracking wait, it was ready and she scrambled into the carriage, directing the driver to the cemetery. No one had come out yet but she didn't want to chance Madame Giry or Raoul finding her.

Once the carriage was on its way she leaned back, staring blankly at her hands folded in her lap. This trip would accomplish nothing except give her a chance to think and she wasn't sure how much good that would do.

It didn't matter what she did—Raoul and the managers were going to put their plan into action. Raoul wouldn't stop it unless she agreed to leave with him, which she wasn't going to do, so he would do it because he wanted to help her and to keep her safe, regardless of the risks to himself and everyone else. He couldn't see the precarious path they walked, nor did he understand exactly whom he was up against.

Erik hadn't dropped the chandelier but he had killed Buquet and humiliated Carlotta; there was no telling how he would react to this attempt to capture him. There was no telling what he was going to do.

Christine shivered and wrapped her cloak more tightly around herself. She was still scared of him and of what he was going to do. She was scared of what he would think when they made her agree to take part in their plan. He hadn't hurt her yet but if he thought she had betrayed him…

Arriving at the cemetery, Christine carefully descended from the carriage and told the driver to wait. She wouldn't be too long; she just needed to visit her father's grave for a few minutes to pray for guidance.

Her breath frosted the air as she made her way past stone monuments that were lightly dusted with snow. It was a grey, slushy day that didn't improve on her thoughts any. She walked slowly, trying to find guidance in the faces of stone angels.

She didn't want to have any part in this. She didn't want them to catch Erik, she didn't want Erik to think she'd betray him, and she didn't want to be the cause of any more attacks. She had managed, through a great deal of not thinking about certain things or talking about recent events, to keep a balance throughout everything, because if she didn't she would go mad, but now this plan of Raoul's threatened that. It was bringing everything that had been building up the past few months to a head.

Her mind ran in circles as she tried to find a solution but she couldn't think of a single useful thing. She walked faster. They couldn't catch Erik because he was a part of the opera—they would kill him, or put him in jail, and she wouldn't have her angel anymore. And it would all be her fault—he wouldn't have done as much as he had except for her. Everything led back to her, everything was connected to her, and it was all her fault.

She finally reached her father's grave, the simple stone like a beacon drawing her. She knelt in front of it, heedless of the slush soaking through her thick skirts, and leaned her forehead against the frigid stone, the cold soothing away some of the tension that seemed to knot her brain. "Oh father," she half whispered, half sobbed, "What should I do?"

There was no answer, of course, no divine inspiration. A tear rolled down her cheek and she didn't try to stop them as more followed the first. She just cried, wishing her father was still alive to tell her what to do.

* * *

Raoul strode out of the managers' office, leaving them happily engaged in plotting the guards' positions. It had taken longer than he had thought to sketch out the entire plan, and so he was sure Christine would have calmed down by now. When he went to Christine's room, however, no one responded to his knock. 

Alarmed, he quickly found Madame Giry where she was directing ballet practice. "Madame Giry," he said as respectfully as he could, trying to rein in his unease, "have you seen Christine?"

The older woman looked surprised. "No, Monsieur. I didn't look for her because my daughter told me she wanted to be alone. I thought it best to give her some space."

Raoul's alarm grew at this bit of news. "She's not in her room – do you know where she could be?"

"She is probably off in a hidden spot—the opera is full of such places. I'm sure she's fine, Monsieur," Madame Giry said, her tone telling him to accept that explanation.

But Raoul wasn't convinced; he had a feeling, and he wasn't going to back down about it. "Please, I need to find her."

Madame Giry gave him a long look before calling for her daughter. "Meg! Over here please. The rest of you, continue working."

Raoul watched as Meg made her way to them. "Yes, Maman?" she asked, not looking either of them in the eye.

"Do you know where Christine is?" Raoul burst out eagerly.

The girl looked at him with a strange expression on her face. "Tell us child," Madame Giry said sternly.

Meg still hesitated before saying, "Christine really wanted to be alone." Madame Giry's stare didn't waver and Meg finally relented. "She went to the cemetery to pray," she said reluctantly.

Madame Giry dismissed Meg back to practice and Raoul dashed for the stables after politely excusing himself. He couldn't shake the feeling that he needed to find Christine as soon as he could.

* * *

Christine's face began to grow numb from the cold after a few minutes. She straightened, scrubbing moisture off her face with chilled fingers, and looked down with dismay at the mess on her skirts, trying to shake them out a bit. 

"Didn't your Vicomte tell you not to wander by yourself?" a very familiar voice asked from behind her.

Christine spun around with a gasp. There was Erik, stepping calmly from behind a tombstone. She stared at him as he came to a stop a few feet from her, his manner relaxed.

"After all, you could meet someone dangerous," he continued, lips quirking upward in a smirk. "A phantom, perhaps?"

"Erik!" she exclaimed, utterly surprised to see him there. She would have been somewhat prepared to see him again in the opera house but not here, not when she had come to figure out what to tell him in the first place.

He froze when she said his name and they both stared at each other silently. Christine let out a sigh as she searched for something to say, for some way to explain matters.

Her sigh, however, jolted him out of his stillness and in two quick steps he was looming over her. Christine took a step back automatically and was startled when his hand on her arm prevented her from going further.

"Where did you hear that name?" he rasped, the smirk gone entirely.

Christine looked wide-eyed from the hand on her arm to his face, mentally floundering as she realized her slip. "Madame Giry told me," she quavered. She didn't want to betray the ballet mistress, but there was no other choice. The expression on the half of his face she could see told her that he would know if she lied and wouldn't be deterred from finding out for himself. He was either mad or badly startled—almost as startled as she had been a few moments ago.

He didn't say anything for a minute. Christine quailed under his eyes. They were so close he was intimidating her from his presence alone. She could hear his breathing: short, sharp breaths that betrayed his emotion. "I'm sorry," she stammered, "I didn't mean—" He released her so abruptly that she faltered before continuing, "It's my fault. I asked her because I wanted to know. She didn't want to say anything." She stopped when she became aware that she was babbling.

"How much do you know?" His words were quiet but there was command in them.

Christine didn't answer. Dozen of explanations clogged her throat but she couldn't bring herself to say a single one of them.

"How much did she tell you?" His voice was louder now and he suddenly seemed closer.

Christine flinched and said in a voice barely above a whisper, "Everything. She told me everything."

He turned away with a muffled curse. Christine stayed rooted to the spot. "She will regret this," she heard him mutter.

"No! Please!" The words flew out of her mouth before she could think, and she was beside him in an instant. "You can't be mad at her, it's my fault. You can't let her know I told you, she made me promise. It doesn't matter anyway," she said breathlessly, the words falling out of her mouth in a jumble.

"It doesn't matter? It changes _everything_." He turned to look at her, and Christine found she couldn't move. "Why didn't you leave with your Vicomte once you knew the truth? Once you knew where I came from?" His voice was steady but his tone made Christine tremble.

"I don't— I can't—" Oh, why couldn't she speak? She tried again. "Erik, it doesn't matter! Because the managers…and Raoul, they—"

He cut her off with a harsh laugh, "I suppose I'm lucky you haven't informed them yet. Had to give me fair warning, my dear?"

"No," she denied, feeling frustrated by her inability to tell him anything clearly, "I—"

This time she was interrupted by a call some ways away.

"Christine!"

Christine spun around. It was Raoul's voice, calling her name somewhere close. "Raoul?" she said aloud, mostly to herself. How had he known where she was?

Long fingers curled around her elbow and she found herself spun back around to face Erik again. "Did you tell him to meet you here?" he hissed, leaning over her to stare right into her face"Were you going to run away with him now?" His grip was tight enough that she didn't even think about trying to pull away.

"No," she managed to murmur, "He must have followed me."

Raoul burst into view. "Christine!" he cried when he spotted her. He came to an abrupt halt when he saw whom she was with, and his hurried glance took in Erik's hold on her arm. At once he stiffened, his voice becoming aggressive. "Take your hands off her, you monster," he said fiercely.

Erik turned to face him, keeping a hold on Christine's elbow, and she remained unresisting at his side. "I told you to stay away from her, Vicomte – you should have listened." Christine gasped as Erik pulled her behind him, releasing her arm.

She peered around his back without touching him, leaning out to the side so she could see what was happening. Raoul had drawn closer, hands clenched at his sides in fists. Erik seemed relaxed, but this close Christine could see him vibrating with tension.

"You have no right to make such demands. Let her go!" Raoul spat. His face was white but his mouth was set with determination. Christine felt a thrill go through her upon learning that he was willing to do so much to protect her, but then she felt an equal chill as she realized that they were at a standoff. "Christine, when you can, run," Raoul continued urgently, not taking his eyes off Erik, "Take my horse at the gate and go." He moved sideways; Erik mirrored him, always staying between him and Christine.

He moved again and Erik pressed Christine back. It was too much for her to take, the two of them face to face, realizing they were going to fight over her. "Wait," she begged, but neither of them looked at her.

She tried to dart around Erik to put herself between them but Erik's arm shot out and caught hold of her wrist before she was far past him. She could see Raoul running forward, yelling her name just as she lost her footing from the slush and the sudden stop. She flailed, trying to keep on her feet, but was hampered by Erik's grip on her wrist.

"Raoul, stop!" she had the presence of mind to say, clinging precariously to Erik's arm while trying to find her balance. She didn't want him rushing in to rescue her and making the situation any worse. Erik grabbed her other arm and steadied her, scowling at both her and Raoul. She stood up straight, and his hand fell away, although he still held her wrist. Christine stepped back as far as he permitted and looked to Raoul, who had slid to a stop a few feet away. "Stop it both of you!" The look on his face was murderous, and when she looked back at Erik, his was the same.

"You should be more careful, my dear," Erik said, tightening his grip briefly. His meaning was clear to her. _Don't try to run again_.

"You won't get away with this, Phantom!" Raoul burst out.

"Stop it, oh stop it!" Christine cried, "I won't let you fight over me."

Looking from one to the other, she knew that neither was willing to let her leave with the other. They really meant to fight over her!

She jerked her hand back. It wasn't enough to make Erik lose his grip but it brought his attention to her. Raoul would die before he left her here with Erik, but maybe Erik could be persuaded to let her leave with Raoul. She could talk to him later. She drew her hand up and put her other hand over his. "You have to let me go," she said softly, her back to Raoul. She hoped Erik was either guessing or reading in her expression all that she couldn't say.

Evidently he did because he let Christine pry his hand from her wrist. It fell limply to his side and he made no other moves. Christine backed up slowly until she felt Raoul's arms around her, her eyes never leaving Erik's face. She couldn't read his expression.

Raoul kept a firm grip around her shoulders as if afraid she would be snatched away. They both backed up until there were several gravestones between them and Erik and then he spun around with her and hurried her to the entrance. Once outside the gate he paused. "Are you all right?" he asked.

She gave him a weak smile, shaken by the whole incident. "I'm fine, just startled."

He frowned at her, but she could tell he wasn't really mad. "You're lucky. There's no telling what he might have done. You shouldn't have come alone."

His words, a curious echo of Erik's, made her shudder. She said nothing and let Raoul lecture her worriedly all the way back to the opera, only halfway paying attention. She was more apprehensive now than when she had set off to the cemetery to try to resolve her problems.


	17. A Most Difficult Letter

**Well, this is a record time to write a chapter entirely from scratch for me. I'm going to try to do the same until this is done, but I'm busy for most of this week. But hopefully the cause of some of this business will be inspiring. I like to think so anyway. This chapter is also unbeta'd, so any mistakes are mine.**

** I'm dedicating this one to those lovely people I am going to meet at a certain stagedoor very soon. May it not be too traumatizing. ;)**

**I don't own Phantom of the Opera in any way.

* * *

**

**Chapter Seventeen: A Most Difficult Letter**

All the way back to the Opera, Christine worried about what Raoul's reaction, the real one once he got over his initial panic, would be, but she was mostly numb and unable to react to much. She was silent as he helped her down and ushered her into the opera. She was silent as he led her straight to Madame Giry and left her in her care to change. Madame Giry thankfully asked her no questions after Raoul's whispered "He was there."

She broke out of her silence, however, when he returned leading some of the props men and announced, "I've spoken to the managers, and arranged it—you're moving back into the ballet dormitories."

Christine, and Madame Giry beside her, gaped at him. "What?" Christine asked, "But why?"

"It's clear he's become bolder," Raoul explained gently, "You can't be alone, or who knows what he would do. You'll be safer in the dormitories, since you won't leave altogether." He paused and added, "I've also arranged for you to have someone with you at all times. I don't want to risk losing you."

Christine gave a defeated nod of her head, as around her the props men started moving some of her things. She didn't dare protest too much, or have Raoul question why she wanted to remain in this room. They might search and find the mirror passage. She would find some other way to speak to Erik later, if he didn't find her first.

She needed to see him again, before opening night. She hadn't had a chance to tell him about Raoul's plan, and while she was positive he would find out about it, she needed to tell him her part, and her feelings. So far he had been both jealous in guarding her and quick to accuse her of betrayal. So it was important that she finish her conversation with him before he came to any wrong conclusions.

However, Raoul's intervention once again threw off her plans. As the days went by, it became clear that Madame Giry, the person Christine had counted on to let her slip away, was not one of those trusted with guarding her. There was always someone else around: it was impossible to get away from rehearsals, Raoul was there a lot more than usual, and Meg could hardly be peeled from her side.

Christine could hardly blame her friend though—she was doing it out of concern. These days, Meg was as pale and nervous as Christine, although she never faltered in her loyal guarding.

"He does not trust my connections, my dear," Madame Giry whispered once to her when Meg was across the room. Christine nodded. Although Madame Giry should have been able to make her daughter leave for a while, Meg refused to budge, though Christine was sure it was out of a fear to leave Christine alone rather than distrust of her mother.

That made too much sense, though. Madame Giry had always served as somewhat of a mouthpiece for the Phantom, and, in Raoul's eyes, she had failed when she hadn't known Christine had left for the cemetery. The managers, perhaps, hated the ballet mistress out of spite for the way she refused to flatter them, but it amounted to the same thing. Christine was stuck, and there was no way she could think of around it without giving away more than she should.

And Erik never appeared either. Christine kept her eyes open during rehearsals, and everywhere she went, but there was never a sign of him. She became even more worried. If she couldn't get away, her second hope had been that he would find a way to talk to her. With neither of those happening, she was making her self sick from worry and stress.

It came to a crux one day, while she was eating with Raoul in a small café. She could only pick at her food, and something made her look to him and ask, "Raoul, what will happen i-if you catch him?"

Raoul froze, and looked at her in concern. The fact that she was barely eating hadn't escaped him. He searched for the politest and least distressing answer, but he couldn't bring himself to lie to her. "If he's not killed during capture," he said carefully, "He'll most likely be hanged, for killing Buquet at the least." He hardly dared to move, waiting for Christine's reaction.

Christine's breath caught in her throat. It was the answer she had expected, but it was still shocking to hear it said out loud. She gave a small, stifled sob. "I can't Raoul," she said, "I can't do that…cause someone's death." Or another person's, she thought despairingly. Her indirect involvement with Buquet's death weighed heavily on her; she couldn't stand for it to happen again, and especially not Erik. In many ways, it was her fault he was being hunted now.

Raoul looked uncomfortable, and she knew he was torn between giving in and not having her be in the opera and his desire to catch the Phantom. But as his silence lengthened, she knew he wasn't going to stop his plan.

She stood up suddenly. "I'm going to go to my room," she said stiffly, "Meg should be there." As much as she wanted to bolt, she knew it would only cause a scene, so she waited as he hurriedly got up and offered her his arm to escort her.

"Christine, it'll be fine," he said awkwardly once they had reached the dormitory.

"I don't see how it can be," she said, with as much dignity as she could muster, before fleeing inside and shutting the door behind her.

She went over to her old bed and sat down, leaning against the wall and tucking her legs up under her. It was only a week until opening night, she thought woodenly, one week and then she'd be forced to watch what happened helplessly.

"Christine?" Meg's voice was soft and uncertain as she sat down next to Christine. "Christine are you okay? What's wrong?"

Her friend's worried tone brought tears to Christine's eyes. She wanted—oh how she wanted—to be able to tell Meg everything. "Nothing you can help with," she said, brushing at her eyes with a trembling hand. "I can't do this, Meg, what they expect me to do."

Meg put her hand gently on Christine's shoulder. "But Christine…"

"I can't help kill someone!" Christine burst out, "I just can't!" She shuddered. Meg didn't say anything, but she put an arm around her friend as Christine continued. "And especially not the Phantom. Not him!"

"But why not?" Meg said cautiously, "You've been safe so far, and if it works…"

"You don't understand," Christine whispered brokenly, "There's more than that."

Meg's voice was soothing. "You can tell me Christine," she said quietly. "I promise that all I want is for you to be safe. You're my best friend. You can tell me."

Christine was still for a moment. Maybe she could tell Meg. She didn't know what else to do, and if felt like she couldn't keep to herself anymore. She trusted Meg more than anyone else, except maybe Madame Giry. She turned to Meg. "You can't tell anyone," she warned, "Not Raoul, not the managers, not even your mother. Promise."

Meg nodded solemnly. "I promise." She gave a slight smile. "I feel like we're twelve again." She sobered again when Christine didn't respond. "Come on Christine. Something is obviously wrong. I promise I won't tell, and I'll try to help."

That did it. Christine's barriers, already weak, went down immediately. "I can't kill him, Meg. I can't kill him because he's my teacher and he rescued me and I didn't want to give him away and I—"

Meg cut her off, "Wait…I don't understand. Who's your teacher?" Christine opened her mouth, but Meg's eyes widened as she came to the right conclusion. "The _Phantom_? Your teacher is the Phantom?" She was silent again as she sorted through Christine's rush of information.

"I didn't know it at first," Christine said, looking down at her hands, "I was very young, and new here, and he was just a voice." She raised her eyes to Meg's shocked ones. "He was someone I could tell anything to, because he wasn't _real._ I figured it out eventually, that he was a real person, but I never told him because I didn't want him to leave." She gave a short laugh. "You may not believe it, but he was kind to me, most of the time, unless I shirked my music."

Meg still looked shocked. "Then all this time…And Raoul, does he—?"

"No!" Christine blurted, "He only knows the Phantom's interested in me for some reason, not the rest. This all started the day he appeared, with the notes about _Hannibal_. I didn't ask for this, it just happened. Believe that, if nothing else."

Meg smiled a tiny bit. "I do believe, it's just hard to understand. Oh Christine, what about all the accidents? And the Masquerade? And Joseph Buquet?"

Christine had to look away. "He's never hurt me, even when I've given him reason to. He even left me alone because I asked, so I have to trust that. And Buquet," she hesitated, "Buquet was not an accident, but not for the reason you might think. I can't say…but I can't condemn him for it. You have to help me, because I don't want him to be caught and killed!"

Meg was confused. "But you said he already knows the plan. So it won't work, and the problem is solved."

But Christine was shaking her head. "I didn't get to finish telling him at the cemetery—he was there—and I haven't talked to him since. He probably already knows, but I'm afraid he'll come anyway, because he thinks I want him to be captured, and he'll be angry. Or he'll come to prove he can." She grasped Meg's sleeve, "I have to tell him and make sure he doesn't come."

Christine, I'm not sure…" Meg began uncertainly. She trailed off and studied Christine. "How do you know this is safe?" she asked finally, "What do you want to do?"

Christine said, "I need to find him, but I can't slip away that long, or someone will notice." She let go of Meg's sleeve and got up, crossing hurriedly to a desk, an idea coming to her. "But you can help," she said over her shoulder as she began scribbling a note. She had written a few words when she realized her friend had not answered. She turned to look.

Meg was staring at her with wide eyes. "I don't know," she said faintly, "I don't think—"

Christine crossed back to kneel in front of her. "Please Meg," she pleaded, taking her hands, "Please, all you have to do is deliver a letter. I wouldn't ask it if it wasn't important."

"A letter to the Phantom?" Meg said, her voice shaking a little.

"Yes, just a letter," Christine said, "I'll tell you where to leave it so he will find it." She squeezed Meg's hands, then got back up and started writing again. She hastily finished it—it wasn't long, but she wasn't sure how much time she had to explain things to Meg. She folded and sealed it. Hesitating, she put "Erik" on the front of it. No one would know who it was for if they saw it, she reasoned.

Turning, she handed it to Meg, who took it slowly. "Please?" she asked, "You just have to leave it in a spot, I swear."

Meg turned it over, and Christine could see her mouth the word Erik. Then she looked up. "I'll do it," she said softly, "If you're sure about this…about him. I just want you to be happy, and you haven't been the last few weeks."

Christine smiled and hugged her. "Thank you so much," she said, Then she explained how her mirror opened. Meg was to walk down the tunnel and leave the letter on the shore of the lake. Erik would be sure to find it there, she thought.

Meg still didn't look completely sure, but she agreed to everything, and for that Christine was grateful beyond words. Then some of the other girls came in, and Meg slipped out after a few minutes. Christine watched her go anxiously—the letter had been short and hurried, but hopefully Erik would know what she was trying to say.

It was easier, then, to act like nothing was wrong. The letter meant that Erik would be safe, and she could figure out what to do about after it later. It was only a delay, but she needed time. Since she didn't want to leave with Raoul, there was no clear path for her to take, and she could only wait and see what happened.

* * *

Meg opened the door to Christine's room and cautiously poked her head in. She didn't know quite what she expected to see, but there was nothing out of the ordinary there. Still, her nerves were buzzing as she slipped inside and closed the door behind her. She couldn't believe she had agreed to do this—it had been largely her desire to help her friend, but mixed in had been a healthy dose of curiosity. After hearing and telling stories about the Phantom for most of her life, the chance to actually see and use one of his passages sent a thrill through her. 

Now that she was standing so close though, the thrill was gone. She stood looking at the large mirror until a crinkle of paper as she shifted galvanized her into action. She approached the mirror. Christine had said there would be a hidden button or lever on this side, most likely in the frame itself. She cautiously ran her hands down the sides, but found nothing immediately. She sighed, and began examining it more closely, prodding all the ornamentation until finally a very small whorl off to the side pressed under her finger, and the mirror swung open with a _click_.

It opened onto a black tunnel. Meg stared. It looked so intimidating—there was no telling what was down there.

But she had promised Christine, and she had come this far. She would just hurry and leave the letter before anything knew she was there. She picked up the candle she had brought with her, trying not to notice how much her hand was shaking as she did so, and set off.

The tunnel was very dark, and her candle didn't light very much of it at all. Meg skinned her shoulder against the rough stone of the wall before she began to keep her hand on it for guidance. She just hoped she would see the lake Christine had told her about before she fell into it.

Something furry brushed past her feet and she jumped back with a shriek, pressing her back against the wall. As she swung around, the light just barely showed a mouse scurrying away. She watched it disappear with a sigh of relief.

She turned around again to find herself inches from a large and dark shape. She shrieked again, louder this time, but a gloved hand clamped over her mouth and another wrapped itself around her neck, slamming her back against the wall. The candle fell from her nerveless fingers and blew out, leaving the tunnel in darkness. Meg whimpered, before it had gone out, the flame had glinted off a white mask. It was the Phantom.

The hand on her throat tightened when she tried to struggle, so she held herself still, trying to control her sobs. There was a whisper of fabric as he leaned down, and his voice whispered in her ear. "The only reason I haven't killed you yet is because of your mother, Meg Giry. What are you doing here?" he said, the chill anger in his voice making Meg tremble.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to imagine what was going to happen to her. Abruptly he lifted his hand from her mouth. Her eyes opened, searching the darkness about her. She found to her horror that she could see his eyes, glowing faintly yellow even in this dark. She couldn't make herself speak, still trying not to cry.

"Answer me," he said curtly.

Meg drew in a shuddering breath, shaking badly. "I—" she started, but her voice failed her. Licking her lips, she tried again. "I have a l-letter, from Christine," she managed to get out. She fumbled at her waist, and the hand left her throat as she held the letter up between them. "I was s-supposed to leave it by a lake. She was very anxious for you to get it," she said, her voice shaky.

The letter was snatched from her hand, and to her relief she could feel him move back. She about shrieked again, however, when his voice sounded right by her ear again. "Go now, Little Giry. Forget how you got here and don't come back."

She turned and fled as fast as she could in the dark. Finally the light from the dressing room came into view, and she burst out of the tunnel. Turning, she slid the mirror shut and leaned against it, gasping for breath. She couldn't believe she was still alive. Her nerves felt like they were on fire and her heart was pounding.

Had that really just happened? Had the Phantom nearly strangled her, called her by name, and then let her go? She shoved away from the mirror and bolted out of the room, wanting to put distance between herself and that mirror. She could still hear the sepulcher coldness in his voice and the pressure of his fingers around her throat. Now she knew how incredibly foolish it had been to think she could just enter his domain and leave again, unnoticed.

She shivered, hurrying through the halls to give Christine some sign that it was done. She didn't know how Christine could have a connection with this Phantom, but she would just have to trust that Christine knew what she was doing. She personally was going to stay far away from him from now on. Far away and hope he forgot about her. She didn't dare do anything else.

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_Erik-_

_The performance of Don Juan Triumphant is a trap. They mean to capture and execute you. I don't know what you intend to do, but please don't attend. I couldn't bear it if you did._

_Christine_

Erik read the letter that the little Giry had delivered for the third time before setting it back down on the desk. He stared at it. Just a piece of paper, and yet it was causing him no end of confusion and turmoil. What had Christine meant by sending it?

That was the big question, he thought, leaning back in the hard wooden chair and remembering the fright he had given the Giry girl when he had taken it from her. But he hadn't known why she had been that far into the tunnels, or how she had found an entrance in the first place, so it was understandable.

The anger he could feel burning now was different from that hot flare. It was steady, and almost cold, building quickly as he thought about the letter and what it meant.

He looked at it again. The contents were hastily scribbled, and very short. They appeared to be a warning, written in concern. But why would Christine trouble to warn him of a trap he was sure to already know about? And why didn't she want him to attend? She had already left him once, in the cemetery—left him for that boy after making the shocking declaration that she knew his name and his past.

His name. His past. His face. He wasn't surprised, although he was angry, at her choice. She knew more about him than anyone _ever_ had. Also, she'd let _him_ get far closer to her than he ever had to another person. He closed his eyes and thought about her innocent beauty, her wondrous voice, the feel of carrying her in his arms. She was his, and after all of this, he wouldn't allow her to just leave him. Even though that was what she was planning to do.

The letter was likely a ruse to keep him away so she could escape with her Vicomte. The thought of them married and living a happy, normal life made him clench his fists in anger.

He would attend _Don Juan Triumphant_. It was his masterpiece, after all, and he couldn't miss its premier. It would also be a fitting time to claim Christine as his own…

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**We're getting close to the end. I'm guesstimating 2 more chapters and an epilogue, unless said chapter get too long and I chop them into bits.** **Thank you to everyone who has stuck around for this long!**


	18. Descent into a Nightmare

**This chapter is dedicated to my friends from school, who don't know anything about this story, but are coming down to visit me. I would also like to credit the wonderful, wonderful actors I saw in _Wicked_ and _Les Miserables_. There is nothing like a top-notch musical to inspire the writing muse, and they were all amazing. **

**The mention of M. Reyer is dedicated to Jennyfair, just because.**

**Chapter Eighteen: Descent Into a Nightmare

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Christine felt as though she was going to be sick. The nervousness she had felt before _Hannibal_ and _Il Muto_ had been nothing compared to how she felt now. Beyond the curtain, she could hear the rustle of the audience, louder than usual. The public had greeted the introduction of a new opera, by an unknown composer, with confusion and skepticism. Many were here, she suspected, to say they had been to the unveiling of the biggest flop of the season.

That mood had been mirrored inside the Opera House itself. It was common knowledge there that the Phantom was the composer, but even that didn't completely stop the whispers about the style of the new opera. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was different from anything anyone had heard before, and the cast set about rehearsing it in uneasy disbelief. It was so edgy and discordant. Musically, it was brilliant, as Monsieur Reyer was heard to say three times a day, but one could not relax into it like other operas, it was so full of raw emotion.

For Christine, better acquainted with the root of the emotion than anyone else, it was both terrifying and hypnotizing. She could feel Erik in every note; hear him every time she sang.

And so, moments from the start of the show, she was almost quivering in fear and anticipation. She wanted to believe, as she had convinced herself for the past week, that he wouldn't come. That her plea would make him consider his safety. But with every practice, she grew surer he would come anyway. How could he stay away, when this opera so clearly bared his soul if you knew what to look for? The only thing keeping her the least bit calm was the thought that even if he did come, he knew about the trap. Meg had confirmed, white with fear, that she had delivered the letter. So if he came he would be safely hidden in one of his tunnels.

She couldn't entirely believe that, and it was too late to do anything about her fears, because the curtain was rising, and there was Meg, dancing the opening steps.

Christine calmed herself as much as she could and started her part. In a way, she was glad to be playing this opposite Piangi. _Don Juan Triumphant_ was about an accomplished seducer turning all his wiles on the one innocent girl who had yet to succumb to him. Christine knew Erik had written it both in mockery of his own life, and to release all the bitterness inside of him, and had she had to sing opposite him, she would have been terrified out of her wits. It would have been like being a tiny mouse under the paws of a very large cart. As it was, Piangi inspired none of the emotion in her, and she was able to get through the first act with a minimum of shaking.

She found Meg during the intermission. "It's going well," her friend said, "The guards have found nothing suspicious, although I've heard many suspicious comments about the guards. The audience is edgy. Except when you sing." She grinned proudly, "Then there's not a rustle anywhere."

Christine blushed, but had other things to think about. She had seen Raoul during the performance, up in Box Five, flanked by two guards. Even at a quick glance, she could tell he was only halfway paying attention to the opera, spending most of the time darting searching glances around the room. She sincerely hoped he wouldn't find anything.

The second act opened, and Christine wasn't feeling any less nervous. Erik had shown he was capable of waiting until the best moment to set his plans in action—his non-appearance for act one meant nothing.

It was at the very end of the second act that Erik made his move. Christine was waiting for Piangi to make his reappearance onstage as she sang her part. This was the final duet of the opera—if they could get through this it would be over. She lifted her eyes to look at Raoul as she sang. He was frowning, and she guessed he was perturbed at not even catching a glimpse of Erik. Relieved, she looked back down as her part wound to a close.

There was a brief pause, and then someone began singing Piangi's part, but it wasn't Piangi. That was immediately apparent as the new voice effortlessly filled the stage. Every muscle of Christine's body locked, and she had to close her eyes and bite her lip to hold back a gasp. There was no mistaking that voice—she remembered it from that night long ago down in his house. It was Erik.

Never in Christine's wildest imaginings had she thought that he would actually take over the role of Don Juan, in front of everyone. And what had he done to Piangi? She shied away from that thought, because she could hear him coming closer.

She had been kneeling; now she slowly stood up, her hands at her sides to hide their shaking. His voice came closer and closer, and she didn't dare to turn around. Instead, she stared blindly into the audience, almost paralyzed, until she could tell he was right behind her. She risked a glance up at Raoul. It was too late to hope he didn't know who was onstage with her, she saw. His face was a study of shock and horror.

Raoul looked across to the boxes on the opposite side of the stage, and Christine followed his glance. The managers were seated there, and although she couldn't make out their faces, she could see they were agitated. Raoul grew agitated too, shooting looks at the guardsmen posted behind him.

Then Erik drew close enough his voice was almost in her ear, and she looked away from Raoul, but she had figured out his dilemma. They couldn't do anything while he was onstage—the managers wouldn't allow it. They didn't want the scandal of the police onstage, and Raoul couldn't order them to shoot because she was too close.

Before she could think further, though, her attention was jerked back onstage by Erik's voice now hovering almost over her shoulder. She could feel him behind her, and it was difficult to stand still. His hands ghosted down the sides of her arms, almost but not quite touching. She was slowly losing hold of her thoughts about after the show. The lightest brush of his fingers on her shoulder, and she turned around to face him, finally. He loomed over her, completely hidden by the voluminous robes of the costume. Even this close, she couldn't see a hint of his white mask under the concealing hood. There was only his voice, and his hands as they drifted back along her arms.

Acting with him was not the same as it had been with Piangi, she thought as she prepared to begin her part. Erik was much more intense—he seemed angry, almost stalking about her, and at the same time putting the full power of his dark, rich voice on her. Somehow she didn't falter when it was time for her to sing. It was as if his presence drew every shred of her talent out of her as she responded to his performance. She could feel herself becoming immersed in the music, losing herself in the moment and the role.

They went through the entire song, the music spilling easily from them, their voices blending effortlessly to fill the house. Not once did Christine fumble, growing more and more at ease within the role—an ease she had never gained in rehearsal. She lost herself in the music until she could only think of the moment.

It was only when they stood center stage, drawing out the last verse, that she realized the opera was over. As if waking from a trance, she looked at their joined hands and then up into the depths of the hood. She still couldn't see his face, but his hand transferred itself to grip her wrist, tightening warningly. Her eyes widened.

She tried to step back, but he drew her hand up, forcing her even closer. The last long note slowly died away, and she could vaguely hear applause. She could also hear Raoul shouting, but she all could do was look up into the darkness of his hood. Suddenly his other hand flicked out towards the audience, and there was a brilliant flash of light. Now there was screaming, and in the confusion, Erik dragged her backstage, his hand painful on her wrist. No one stopped them—they were all still focused on the stage, or they were panicking, and not seeing anything at all.

"Erik, stop!" she cried, desperate. This wasn't supposed to have happened. She didn't know what he was doing, or why he felt so _angry_.

He didn't answer her as he pulled her behind a piece of scenery and over to a wall. She didn't see what he did, but a panel swung back, revealing a tunnel.

Christine gaped at it, but before she could do more than that he jerked her inside so fast she tripped, crying out. She was pulled upright, one of his hands covering her mouth as the other gripped her upper arm tightly. He quickly steadied her, and then released her arm and reached around her to swing the panel shut. It closed easily, leaving them in total darkness.

Christine waited for him to uncover her mouth, but he didn't right away. Instead she could feel him lean down. "No one, not even Madame Giry, knows about this entrance. No one will follow us," he hissed, making it a threat.

His hand left her mouth to latch onto her wrist again, and he began to pull her down the tunnel, walking very fast. Christine stumbled after him as best she could. Several times she tripped over her skirts or scraped her hands on the rough stone wall, but he paused only long enough for her to find her balance before he was off again, leading them ever down.

Christine began to grow afraid. Why was he acting like this? Why had he ignored her warning and then kidnapped her? Raoul would surely come after her, Erik had to know that. The thought began to form inside her that he was blaming her for the trap. Or maybe he still hated her for knowing his past. All she knew was that this man dragging her though the darkness was not a man she had encountered before—not in his home, not at the masquerade, not even at the cemetery when he had been angry with her.

It was utterly terrifying. The tunnel was completely dark, and she couldn't even make out his form in front of her. Her only connection with sensation was his thin hand wrapped around her wrist, hurrying her relentlessly forward. She had no choice but to fly after him and trust she wasn't about to hit something.

But suddenly she stepped in a small depression in the stone floor and pitched forward, her arm jerked up by Erik's pull. She hit the ground with both knees and skidded, violently banging her elbow against the wall and feeling her dress rip under one knee. Erik stopped, and he released her wrist.

Putting one hand out until it hit the wall, she braced herself and began to stand up. Erik's hand caught her elbow to help her up and she whimpered. It was the one she had hit against the stone, and she could feel that it had been badly scraped. Erik released her instantly.

"Are you alright?" Erik's voice was curt and distinctly cool, but at least he was asking. It was the first time he'd spoken to her since telling her not to expect pursuit.

"I think I scraped my elbow," she managed, breaking off with a gasp as she stood. Her knee burned, especially when she straightened it or put any weight on it, and she braced herself against the wall. "My knee also," she added.

"Can you walk?"

She jerked her head up at the harsh question, almost gasping again at the sight of his eyes gleaming. She would never get used to them. "Not as fast as we have been," she answered truthfully. She could walk, but it would be painful.

Then he moved and she _did_ gasp out loud at the suddenness of it. He scooped her up easily and continued striding down the tunnel without another word.

Christine hesitantly put her hands on his chest, cautiously running them up until she could put them around his neck to support herself. His frame under her touch was tense, and she felt a jar in his stride when she touched him. She didn't speak either. She didn't know what to say.

Before long, the tunnel opened onto the lake. Christine blinked at the sudden light. The boat was waiting, and Erik quickly walked toward it. He set her down in it almost gently, but as quickly as he could. Before he could move away, Christine looked up at him, his face again hidden now that she couldn't see his eyes glowing, and asked, "Why are you doing this, Erik?" Her voice only trembled a little.

"I think you know why, my dear," he said, quickly turning away to pick up the boat pole. His voice was no longer cool, instead it was low and angry.

Christine didn't dare press him further, huddling in the front of the boat as he climbed in. He began to pole them across the lake. She couldn't look at him, instead examining her knee and elbow. To her relief, they were not near as bad as they had felt in the dark. Her elbow was the worse. It had been badly scraped and had bled a little, as evidenced by the smears of red around the hole on her sleeve. The scrape on her knee was larger, but not as deep, as it had been protected more by the thicker skirts. It hurt to move it, but it was quickly becoming only an annoyance, rather than a true hindrance.

She looked up when she felt the boa land on the other side of the lake. Erik's house was the same as she remembered it. She swallowed nervously—the last time she had been here seemed like a dream at times, but she clearly remembered the disastrous ending well. He had been _furious_ then, and she thought he was even angrier now.

She let him help her out of the boat, her hands trembling in his. Her knee at least allowed her to walk now. Once firmly standing on ground, Christine forced herself to look at him, waiting for him to explain. Still he said nothing, instead walking out of the main room and returning seconds later without the concealing robe and hood. Now that he was rid of it, she could see why she hadn't been able to see his mask under the hood. His normal white mask had been replaced by one that was identical, only painted black.

Finally, when she could stand no more of the painful silence, she timidly asked, "Why am I here?"

His face was drawn into a scowl that was made even more forbidding by the black mask. He advanced towards her, and she had to force herself to stand her ground. She had seen, many times over, that it was impossible to run from him. He stopped a few steps in front of her, hands clenched at his sides.

"Did you think you could just leave and I wouldn't do anything about it?" Or were you planning on sending your friend with another letter to explain things?" he said harshly.

Christine took a step back, hand at her throat. "I d-don't understand," she stammered. Leave? Where had he gotten that idea?

"I think you do," he said, stepping forward and grabbing her uninjured arm. He thrust her towards a chair, and she almost fell into it. "You didn't want me to attend tonight's performance so you could leave with the good Vicomte without interference."

Erik's claim left Christine gaping in shock. "No," she managed to say, shaking her head, "I wasn't—I wouldn't…" She gulped a deep breath, "I wasn't going to run away with Raoul tonight."

Erik's visible eyebrow rose fractionally. "No? Then why the letter? Why is he still here?" He leaned down, gripping the arm of the chair. "_Why did you leave with him at the cemetery?_"

Abruptly he straightened before she could answer. "It doesn't matter now. You won't get the chance again," he almost shouted.

"What do you mean?" Christine asked in a small voice, but he was already striding from the room. He returned moments later, carrying something white and bulky. He thrust it at her, and she took it, fumbling and almost dropping it. When she got it sorted out, she saw that it was a dress. A wedding dress…

Erik must have seen the rising confusion and panic on her face, because he laughed. It was a high-pitched, inhuman sound, and Christine blanched at the sound of it. "You will marry me, Christine. You will be my bride or you will never leave here!"

Christine looked from the dress in her arms to Erik in dawning horror. From somewhere he produced a veil, which he set on top of her head before she could stop him. "Don't look like that, Christine. It won't be bad. I've made arrangements for us to leave Paris. You shall have a normal house, with a pretty garden if you'd like. And you shall go to the market, like any other wife. You can even pretend to have a normal husband." He gave another burst of horrible laughter as he stepped back again.

Christine's mind was consumed by panic and incredulity. Marry him? The Phantom—her angel—was forcing her into marriage? It was too much for her. The dress fell from limp fingers and onto the floor. Christine followed it, sliding down the chair bonelessly as darkness claimed her.

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**Sorry for the horrible cliffhanger, but we were fast approaching a point when it would have been even worse to keep you hanging, so I cut it off here. The next chapter will the be final "main" chapter, I think. I will get it up as soon as I get it scribbled down. And yes, I do seem to be channeling Leroux for this lair scene. It was a real struggle to stop him from speaking in third person. I blame it on the black mask. ;)**


	19. Final Choices

**Wow, I know I am the worst author in the history of authordom, to leave you hanging at the very end for months. I'm sorry, there's really no excuse. But if anyone out there is still reading this (besides you, bee), then I thank you with all of my heart. Your reviews have been of such great encouragement to me, and I love you all a lot! Thank you for sticking with me for this long.**

**So, months later and on Christmas Eve, I give you...the final chapter! That's right, it's all over after this. It's been a long journey, but I'm so glad I made it. Many many thanks to my friends Bee and Jenn and Krow, you guys have kept this alive just as much as I have!**

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**Chapter 19: Final Choices **

Raoul could feel the sweat sticking his collar to the back of his neck as he watched the opera winding to a close below him. He was perched on the edge of his seat, hands gripping the railing tightly. The guards at his back were tense too—he could hear them shifting back and forth impatiently, but there was nothing any of them could do. André and Firmin had signaled that they weren't to shoot. Instead, he had to sit here and watch the Phantom stalk around the stage, knowing full well what the fiend was planning and also knowing that once the show was over and the guards moved in they would both be gone, spirited away through one of his tunnels.

His stomach twisted, imagining the terror Christine must be feeling. Before the Phantom had captured her attention onstage, in that one moment when they had both realized it was really him, she had looked up at him, looking both shocked and cornered. Raoul didn't know exactly what her connection with the Phantom was or why she hadn't appeared more concerned about him before the show, but seeing her scared had made him want to leap to her defense. No matter how much she claimed that he wouldn't hurt her, she couldn't believe it for her to look that frightened. If he could have gone directly from his box to the stage to put himself in front of her, he would have. He would do anything in his power to protect her, despite her rejection of his marriage proposal.

Raoul considered that offer still standing, even though she had refused to talk about it again. So far he had found no other woman who interested him or that he loved a tenth as much as his Christine, despite her odd behavior of late. He didn't know the cause of it, other than it seemed to be bound up with the Phantom somehow.

He gritted his teeth as the Phantom dared to touch Christine's arm. He wouldn't get away after this—he had gone too far and caused them both too much anguish. If the guards did not catch him, Raoul would tear this Opera House apart stone by stone to find him. Even if Christine didn't want to marry him afterwards and chose to stay with the opera, he would do it for her. He just wanted her to be happy, and at least then he would know she was safe. He was confident he could change her mind though.

The scene below him came to a close, and Raoul's worst fears came true. The song finished with a flourish, and suddenly there was a great flash of light—a flash exactly like the one the Phantom had used to escape the masquerade. When he had blinked the spots from his eyes, Christine was gone.

Around him, Raoul could hear the exclamations of the rest of the audience, and of the guards behind him. He didn't waste time speaking to them, or going down to the stage. He wouldn't get there in time to find them.

Instead he left his box at a run and went to find the one person he was sure knew where they had gone. Madame Giry.

He found her trying to calm her ballet corps. The youngest of them were quite terrified and were crying. She was trying to comfort them while at the same time trying to keep control of the older girls, who were shrieking and raising false alarms.

She lifted her head when she saw him approach. With a last assurance, she sent the little girls to huddle off to the side. Raoul didn't waste time.

"Where is he taking her?" he demanded.

Madame Giry hesitated, but her thin face stiffened in resolve. "I will show you, but you must hurry or we'll be too late. He must have gone mad, to come here like this."

Turning, she barked a series of orders that sent most of the ballet corps scurrying back to their dormitory. Only Meg stayed behind. Her eyes were huge with fright, but her hands were clenched in determination. "I'm coming with you," she announced.

"No, Meg, you stay here! It's too dangerous. This way monsieur," Madame Giry said, dismissing her daughter and leading Raoul towards the depths of backstage.

"But this is my fault!" he heard Meg call from behind them. But Raoul didn't hear her following, so he dismissed her from his mind. He hurried to keep up with Madame Giry.

"You know who he is?" she asked him, still hurrying onward.

Raoul hesitated. "I know he's not a ghost," he said. He really didn't know much more than that.

"He became a magician, once he came here, monsieur," she answered firmly, "You must be very careful." They had reached a part of backstage it was clear no one came to much. Madame Giry bent down and pulled open a trapdoor. It opened onto a dark tunnel. She straightened and looked him straight in the eye. "I dare not go any further, monsieur. I must return to look after my girls. I haven't traveled this way in years, but this tunnel will lead you straight to the lake, and his house is on the other side.

Raoul's mind reeled. A _lake?_ A house? All under the opera. He took a deep breath and prepared to climb down, but Madame Giry stopped him.

"One more thing," she said earnestly, "you must keep your hand at the level of your eyes. Like this." She demonstrated.

"But why?" Raoul asked.

"The lasso!" she exclaimed, "The scars on your neck show you have already met it. I don't know why he didn't kill you then, but he will surely kill you now if you do not take care!"

Raoul nodded grimly, remembering the burning feeling of being strangled. His hand would prevent the noose from closing around his neck. "Thank you, Madame Giry," he said. Pausing to take off his constricting jacket, he let himself down into the tunnel, and then reached up to take the lamp she handed down.

Above him he heard Madame Giry call "Good luck, monsieur!" and then he was alone. He didn't hesitate, plunging forward into the quiet darkness, holding the lamp in one hand and keeping the other raised like Madame Giry had shown him.

He found himself almost running, even though the lamp did little to truly light the tunnel. He only knew that Christine had been in the monster's possession for too long, and that he had to find her as fast as possible. He was so absorbed in thoughts of Christine, and was guarding more for traps from above, that when the floor opened beneath him he had no time to stop or to save himself. Falling through a flimsy, fake floor, he was dumped with a yell into a stone chute, sliding along, banging elbows and knees against the stone until they were bloody. He managed to bring his arms up to protect his head, although he could hardly think about what was happening, only react. Before he could even attempt to stop himself, the chute ran out and he was falling…

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As this was the second time Christine had come out of a faint to find herself being carried, she at least knew who was carrying her, but it took several seconds for why she had fainted to catch up with her. Before she could react, she felt herself being laid down, and shock kept her silent enough for Erik to pull away before she opened her eyes. She opened them to find she was in the room she had been in last time she was here. She struggled to sit up, to say something, to make some sense of what was happening, but Erik had walked out the door before she could do more than lift her head. 

She sat up with effort, shoving her hair back out of her face and trying to make her mind work again. She couldn't have heard him right, or maybe she hadn't understood what he was saying. He couldn't mean to make her marry him…

But Erik returned, walking quickly into the room, his arms filled with something white and bulky. He paused when he saw her sitting up, but came the rest of the way in and began to carefully lay out his burden on the foot of the bed. Christine saw with terror that it was indeed a wedding dress.

"I am sorry that the idea of becoming my wife fills you with such horror, my dear," he said, not looking at her, "But I assure you that you will get used to the idea in time."

"Erik please—" she began, but she couldn't even begin to think of anything to say. How could he do this?

Now Erik looked up at her, his eyes glowing behind the blank face of his mask. He still wore the full black one he had had on for the opera, and it made him more frightening than normal, because Christine couldn't see any of his face at all above his mouth. It seemed to rob him of his humanity. "No more protestations, angel. You will put on your dress and join your future husband in the main room." He bowed with elaborate gallantry, but Christine knew he was mocking her, and his civil tone barely covered his anger. She didn't know what to do, so she huddled on the bed as he left the room, this time shutting the door behind him.

Christine waited a few seconds before slowly getting out of bed and circling the dress warily. She knew there was no way past Erik, that she was truly trapped here, and she began to shake a little.

But he had said to dress, and so she, fearing he might come back in, began to unbutton her costume with trembling hands. Her elbow stung when she twisted it around, but it had by this time stopped bleeding, and her knee ached less too. Letting the dress fall to the ground, she picked up the wedding gown. For a moment she allowed herself to notice how fine it was—made out of costly material and intricately detailed. She slowly stepped into it and began to lace it up. But when she faced the door to go out, she was hit by the realization that this wasn't a costume. It was real, and she was soon to be married to a man she found she didn't know very well at all.

She stood staring at the door for a few more minutes, until she feared that Erik really would come in again. Then she slowly opened the door and went back into the main room.

Erik was standing by the organ bench, looking down at the veil he held in his hands. Christine guessed it had fallen off when she had fainted. When she walked in, he looked up, letting the veil hang to his side. He didn't say anything, just stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably, aware that the dress fit her perfectly, molding tightly to her top before falling voluminous folds to the floor. Finally he gave a curious headshake and walked over, holding the veil out.

Christine shrank back away from it—she was still in denial that this was happening. Surely it was all a joke, and she wasn't really going to get married. Erik stopped and seemed to snarl. "You are _mine_ now," he said, approaching and putting the veil on her again.

Christine reached up and touched it with trembling fingers. "Please don't do this Erik," she begged.

"Would you have me stand back and let you run off with that boy, Christine?" he countered ruthlessly, "Would you have me watch you break your word with him? You promised to obey me when I said no men, in exchange for your music lessons, and I have been far too lenient with you, my dear."

Christine remembered what he had said earlier, about the note. "I wasn't going to run away tonight—or ever. I told you that. I've told _him_ that. The note was to warn you, so you wouldn't think I was helping them. I wanted you to keep hidden so they wouldn't catch you, and there would be more time to sort things out!" She wasn't sure where these words were coming from. She was terrified, but none of her protests had made Erik yield the slightest bit, and so she fought back with all the ferocity of a cornered cat. "And now you've ruined it all by bringing me here. Raoul will come looking for me, and probably bring half the Opera House with him. And even if we could get out of Paris, do you think I could be happy with someone I was forced to marry?" she raged, half crying. She ripped the veil from her head and threw it on the ground between them.

Erik's mouth thinned as he looked at it. "If it wasn't for this," he said ominously, gesturing wildly towards his mask, "You would be happy. Don't think I don't know that! You pity me for it, but are happy it's under a mask, just as my mother did!" With startling speed he ripped off his mask and threw it down on top of the veil. "But you will have to get used to this...this horror, my dear," he hissed, gripping her arms. He gave her a shake. "I don't want your pity."

Christine didn't attempt to move or look away. Erik's face was frightening in his anger, his eyes bright with rage. She thought she could actually see the blood pulsing on the deformed side of his face. Btu she had seen him this angry before, when _she_ had unmasked him, and she had survived. She had had several encounters with him since then. Still not looking away, she said, "This is not about your face. This hasn't been about your face. I—"

She was cut off by a shout and then a splash from the lake. Erik released her, and they both turned to look. There, beyond the grate, was Raoul, floundering his way to the bars and pulling himself up, sputtering.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, running to the edge of the lake. She was relieved to see that he appeared to be unharmed, but she hadn't imagined that he would find them so soon.

Raoul stopped wiping water out of his face and looked through the grate. His eyes widened when he saw her standing on the edge of the shore. "Christine!" he called, clinging to the bars, "Are you alright?"

Christine didn't answer him. Surprised Raoul hadn't said anything about Erik, she instead looked behind her for him. He had retreated to the side of the cavern, and to her confusion, he didn't seem surprised or upset at Raoul's arrival.

"So good of you to join us, monsieur" he said mockingly.

Raoul's face immediately turned towards Erik. "Let her go! You can do whatever you want with the rest of the cursed Opera House, but let her go!" Being on the other side of the grate didn't seem to phase his determination to rescue her. Christine wished that he could rescue her from this situation, but she didn't know what he could do, locked out as he was. Even if he went back up for help, Erik would have taken them both away before he could get back.

"Raoul, just please go," she begged, not taking her eyes off of Erik, "You can't do anything here." Erik wouldn't let her leave, and Raoul couldn't do anything about it.

"Come now," Erik said, speaking to her now, "It would be rude to turn away such a noble guest." He reached over and pushed down something hidden behind a wall hanging.

With a creak, the portcullis began to rise. Christine began to panic, knowing this for a trap. "No, go back!" she called, but Raoul ducked under as soon as he could and floundered his way to shore, heading directly to her. Christine didn't watch him, instead looking past him with horror as the portcullis went back down, sealing them in. "You shouldn't have come," she said as he climbed out of the lake.

Christine watched with wide eyes as he approached. When he reached her, coming to a stumbling stop and running his hands down her arms until he clasped her hands, he visibly checked to make sure she was unharmed. "I had to come," he told her, "Did he hurt you? I'll ki—" He stopped, a look of utter horror coming over his face.

Christine broke from his grasp and spun around to see Erik advancing towards them. She realized that this was the first time Raoul had gotten a good look at Erik's unmasked face.

"You'll kill me?" Erik finished, coming to a stop a few feet away.

Christine heard Raoul whisper "My God" behind her, and resisted his attempt to pull her behind him, keeping herself firmly between the two men. She didn't take her eyes off Erik. "Please, Erik, let him go," she pleaded, knowing what was in his mind. All of his jealous remarks were running through her head. He had to have planned this. Not only was he going to kidnap her, he was going to eliminate his rival at the same time. Otherwise they wouldn't have been here long enough for Raoul to find them.

Raoul finally stopped pulling her back, instead moving to step around her. "She's leaving with me," he said, his eyes fixed on Erik too, "you can't have her." His face was dead white, but he didn't look away.

Erik's eyes were glowing, even though it wasn't dark. "And you can stop me?" he hissed. He took a step forward.

Raoul shoved Christine away from him, and stood facing Erik with clenched fists. Christine's heart was pounding with horror as she looked between the two men. This was worse than the cemetery; here they were trapped. Her eyes darted to where the portcullis switch was concealed. If only she could get to it… But to do so she'd have to go past Erik, and she didn't dare, not now. She tried to move to stand between them again, but she had only taken a step when they both moved first.

Raoul stepped forward, raising his hands, but he didn't get the chance to do more than that. Erik, his calm composure a stark contrast with Raoul's flushed face and heavy breathing, moved faster, his hand whipping out.

Christine screamed as Erik's noose settled over Raoul's neck. A jerk sent Raoul to his knees, hands coming up far too late to scrabble at the rope. Erik stood over him, careful not to let Raoul's frantic kicks knock him off balance, and pulled the noose tighter.

"You can't even stop me from killing you," Erik said triumphantly, watching as Raoul thrashed at the end of the rope. "Christine is mine." A careful kick knocked Raoul fully to the floor, writhing and thrashing.

Christine came out of her shocked horror at the sound of her name and flew to Erik's side. He didn't notice her at first, focused entirely on Raoul. "Erik, no! Stop it, please stop!" she cried, tears streaming down her face. He looked down at her, but didn't release the rope. "I'll stay with you. I won't try to leave—I swear, if you'll let him go."

She had his full attention, and she noticed with relief that he had slackened the rope a bit. Raoul was choking now, trying desperately to draw in air now that he could. When Erik still didn't say anything she laid her hands on his arm. "I'll be your wife. Let him go and I'll be your wife and stay with you forever."

"No," she heard Raoul gasp, the word barely intelligible. She ignored him; she would have promised anything if only he would let Raoul go and go back to acting like her angel. She knew her angel and cared for him, but right now he simply terrified her. She almost hadn't been able to bear knowing he had killed Buquet, even knowing what she did about the chandelier. She couldn't live with watching him kill Raoul in front of her. Raoul, whose only involvement was his affection for her.

She was crying, choking almost as much as Raoul, as she stood waiting for him to say something. Under her hands, she could feel his arm shaking. She saw him drop the rope entirely, and her heart fluttered in relief. Slowly, the hand that held the rope came up and gently brushed at the sticky tears on her cheek. She didn't pull away, even when his trembling hand cupped her cheek, tilting her face up. His hand was cold and dry as it pressed against her damp cheek.

The trembling that she could feel made her really look at his face. He seemed shocked, although Christine wasn't sure why, since he had been going to force her into marriage. Still, there was something almost pathetic about his face, as if he didn't believe she had made the offer—all of his anger seemed drained away. The change was startling. "Truly?" he asked, "You won't try to run away from me? You'll be my wife?"

She didn't look down at Raoul as she nodded, although she could hear him gasping. Slowly, she brought her hand up to touch his on her face. Now that they had both agreed and Erik was no longer acting so angry, she felt strangely calm.

Erik flinched at her touch, and he didn't look as if he believed her. Suddenly he stepped back. Christine followed, thinking that's he meant her to do. He shook his head. "No," he said simply.

"_Yes,"_ Christine insisted, thinking he had changed his mind and was going to kill Raoul anyway, or didn't believe her, "I will." She brought her other hand up and deliberately laid it over the deformed side of his face. She had braced herself for the touch, but to her surprise it merely felt papery and lumpy. Her mouth opened in surprise, and she gently moved her touch across his face, feeling and exploring.

Erik had closed his eyes and gone rigid, the hand on her cheek spasming, but when her hand began to move his eyes popped open. He tore himself away from her, backing away several steps. His eyes were wide and he trembled. Christine stared as he raised a hand in front of him, as if to ward her off.

"Take him," he said, pointing at Raoul. Christine started to ask what he meant, but he cut her off. "Go! Take the boat. Just leave me!" he shouted, stumbling to the wall and pushing the hidden lever. He kept one hand over his face, and his shoulders were hunched, as if he was trying to hide.

The creak of the portcullis had her looking around. It was rising steadily. Christine couldn't believe it. He was letting them both go. She didn't know what to think, why he was doing this, so she kept her eyes on him. Maybe it was a trick, some other part of his plan. Why would he just let both of them go after going through so much to bring her here in the first place?

When he turned back around to find that she hadn't moved, he straightened, still clutching his face. "Go!" he roared, taking a step forward, like he would chase them out if she didn't move.

Christine shrank back, realizing that he was serious. Cowering from his stare, she turned and fled to where Raoul was pushing himself up, still coughing. At any moment she expected him to change his mind, for the portcullis to come back down, trapping them again. Raoul was recovering, although he had to lean on her to get to his feet. She staggered under his weight, made heavier from the wetness of his clothes, but he quickly regained his balance and changed his hold to a protective one as he visibly checked her over for injury. Quickly though, he pushed her in front of him and stumbled towards the waiting boat.

Christine craned her neck around, still waiting to see Erik coming after them. Surely he wouldn't just let her leave with Raoul? Raoul tugged on her arm. "Hurry, Christine," he rasped, urging her forward. Christine still looked back as Raoul guided her towards the boat. Erik wasn't even looking at them. Instead she could only see his back as he walked away from them.

They reached the boat, and Raoul hastened to help her in and begin to pole them away. Now that escape was actually within reach, he didn't seem to notice his pain, or that he couldn't talk without wincing. Christine stared at the bruises forming on his neck as he poled. He had almost died, trying to rescue her. She dropped her eyes down to her lap. She was grateful he had cared enough to come for her, and she felt relief that he hadn't been killed, but why didn't she feel more grateful for the fact that they were both escaping? It didn't feel _real_, not even after they were well away from shore.

Just as they were passing under the portcullis, there was a cry, almost a moan. It rose until it echoed off the walls around them. Raoul tensed, poling as fast as he could, but Christine turned and looked behind them.

Erik still had his back turned, but he was kneeling now in the center of the room. Christine could just see the veil on the ground in front of him. He didn't seem angry anymore, instead his shoulders were slumped, and he was bowed over. Christine could actually see him shaking, and she quickly turned around so she didn't have to watch.

She should be glad to be escaping, she told herself. That's what she had wanted, wasn't it? To be out of that situation? The moan was replaced by a quiet keening, and Christine's insides twisted. She should be glad to be escaping what Erik had been going to force her to do, but instead she felt worse than she ever had before. As the lament continued to echo around them, Christine had the uncomfortable feeling that she was the guilty one—it felt like she was killing him.

Raoul coughed, and Christine looked up at him in concern. He was concentrating fiercely on poling the boat. He coughed again, and gasped a little; his neck was swollen and bruised. Christine felt even worse—it was her fault he was in this state. She hadn't asked him to come find her, but he had because he was concerned for her. If only she had impressed upon him more that she wasn't in danger from Erik, maybe he would have left her alone and wouldn't be hurt now. She should have guessed his plan would goad Erik into acting. The thought crossed her mind that if he _hadn't_ come, she would be on her way to being married to Erik now.

Or would she? Erik had been in position to force them to do anything, and yet he had let her go. Would she have been able to convince him to let her go if Raoul hadn't come? The thought disturbed her, although it was fruitless to think about it. Had he let her go because she had said she would marry him without a fight? He could have forced her to do anything, and yet he had let her go when she had touched him willingly, and promised to never try to leave him. She had meant it—she would have been his wife.

But instead she was fleeing with Raoul, leaving Erik alone again. She had promised she'd stay in exchange for Raoul's safety, but she was leaving. She hung her head, looking down at her hands folded in her lap. If she concentrated, she could still feel Erik's face, with all of its peculiar bumps and textures.

_You pity me for it, but are happy it's under a mask, just as my mother did! _She remembered Erik's shout. _I don't want your pity! _But she did pity him. He had only let them go after she had touched his unmasked face, and she hadn't missed his shock when she'd touched him. His own mother had wanted him to always wear a mask. But she had touched his face and promised not to leave him.

With every thought she took in this direction, she felt worse. She knew that when they reached the other shore, Raoul would want to make her leave the opera house forever, and everyone would agree with him. Or worse, they'd want her to lead them back down here. Everyone had seen Erik kidnap her—they'd know she knew where to find him. Or Raoul would tell them, and they'd go and find him. She had to go back and make sure he got out. Maybe he would just sit in his home until they came for him, and she couldn't bear him dying on her account anymore than she could bear Raoul doing the same.

She made up her mind to turn back as soon as they reached the other shore. She was too concerned for Erik to do otherwise. She would take the boat back and make sure he left. It didn't matter if—

The boat knocked gently against the side of the docking area, jarring her out of her thoughts. Raoul feverishly maneuvered the boat so that it was as near to the side as possible, and then sprang out. He turned around and reached down to help her up. "We made it, Christine," he rasped.

Christine looked at his outstretched hand, but didn't move. She didn't know any way to make this easy. "I'm going back," she said simply.

Raoul's face went slack from shock and confusion. Christine felt terrible, but she had to go back for Erik. She just didn't know how to make Raoul see that.

When Christine didn't move or say anything else, Raoul gathered himself to react. "You can't! After what just happened, you can't mean to go back."

Christine looked down, unable to maintain looking directly at him. She knew he had a point, and that she should be more horrified at what had happened to him, but she still had to go back. "I have to make sure he gets away. They'll find his home sooner or later now."

Raoul scowled. "Christine, he nearly killed me, and who knows what he would have done to you! You can't go back there; I won't let you!"

Christine tried to sound reasonable. "Raoul, I know that was bad, but I have to go back. He's looked after me for so long; I can't just let them kill him."

Raoul stepped forward, as if to get back into the boat and physically prevent her from going back. Christine half-stood, hand outstretched. "Please Raoul," she pleaded, "Tonight was a mistake. He only came because he thought I was going to run away with you. But he was never going to hurt me. You were the one I was afraid for the entire time." She carefully stood the rest of the way up and reached to grasp the pole Raoul had laid in the bottom of the boat. "And now I have to go back and make sure he gets away."

Raoul made another movement to stop her, and she said sharply, "No!" She took a deep breath; this was hard. "Raoul, there can't be anything between us. I-I can't marry you. This is where I belong. You want to take me away, but this is my home now, Erik made it that way, when he started teaching me. You remember when we were children, how I would play make believe with all the stories? Well he makes the stories real, and I can't let him die." With a burst of strength, she shoved the boat away from shore before Raoul could do more. It bobbled and continued drifting away.

"Christine!" Raoul called. He started to protest more, but then they both heard a noise approaching.

Christine felt the blood drain from her face. The crowd was coming! They had come far faster than she had thought—how could she get all the way back across the lake in time? "Raoul," she whispered. Raoul had been looking back at the passage to the surface, but he jerked around. "Raoul, you have to slow them down," she pleaded. "Please, you have to get to them first, send them down a different tunnel."

Raoul looked at her incredulously. "Christine, just come back with me," he begged. "We can _both_ head them off. Erik can get away, and you can be safe."

Christine shook her head and began trying to push the boat across the lake. Raoul's shoulders slumped. "Are you really going to go back to him?" he asked desperately. She nodded and gave the pole another push. "So he means that much to you?"

Christine nodded again, this time looking up at him. Their eyes met for a moment, and he looked away first. "For you, Christine," he said, "I'll do this for you. If this is what you really want."

"It is Raoul, truly," Christine said. She struggled to correct the boat's path as it drifted sideways.

The noise of the mob grew louder and Raoul, after only a brief hesitation, turned to go down the tunnel to find them. "I'm coming back for you, Christine," he called as he disappeared.

Christine put even more effort into steering the boat. She knew he would come back, also knew that he might not be able to completely deflect the mob and that she had to hurry.

In a series of zigzags she slowly made her way back across the water. Her arms were burning and she nearly cried in relief when she saw the other side. The grate was still up—Erik wasn't even going to try to protect himself from whoever came looking for him. Nearly panting, Christine finally managed to guide the boat to the shore. The pole dropped unheeded as she scrambled out, nearly tripping herself again. But this time there was no Erik to catch her, and he wasn't where he'd been when she'd left. His mask was still in the middle of the floor, on top of the wedding veil. Christine lifted her skirts where the hem was trailing in the water and moved further into the room. Could he have already left? Or was he merely somewhere else in his lair? She knelt down and picked up the mask. Would he have left this behind?

A blast of music caught her by surprise, and she rocked backwards, nearly toppling over. The barrage continued—loud, discordant notes assaulting her ears one after the other, and she could finally see him sitting at the organ, hidden by shadows. He was hunched over so far he was almost indistinct among the fallen curtains and hangings around it, only his arms flying out as he played any indication that he was there.

"Erik?" she said, her voice tremulous, but he didn't pause in his mad playing. It was so loud. Christine nearly covered her ears. Surely the playing would attract the mob much faster. "Erik!"

Emboldened, she crept towards him, trying not to flinch from the music. It made her want both to cringe and to weep from the sheer emotion that was in it. Erik was evidently just as affected. Christine could see his thin frame shaking as she approached, although he didn't falter in his playing.

"Erik," she said one last time, reaching out and lightly touching his shoulder.

Now she did flinch from the sound that resulted as Erik's hands spasmed and, he spun around suddenly to face her. "Christine?' he gasped. They stared at each other for a long moment, both startled into silence. "What are you doing here? You left," he said at last.

Christine almost smiled at the incredulous look on his face. His yellow eyes were wide, and he was open-mouthed in surprise. "I came back to find you," she said softly, "But we have to leave, Erik. The mob is coming to kill you!"

He appeared not to have heard her. "You left with that boy. You loved him so much, and I let you both go," he repeated forcefully, as if she was a wraith he might banish by restating the facts.

"Raoul left," Christine said, "But I had to come back, I couldn't leave you here." One of Erik's hands had halfway extended towards her, badly shaking, and she seized it in both of hers.

Erik jumped at the touch, and he surged to his feet. Christine moved back as he towered over her, but now he was gripping her hands, preventing her from going far. One hand moved to brush the hair from the side of her face. "You came back," he repeated wonderingly. His eyes sharpened and he looked around the room. "Did he come back too?"

"No, I came back alone," she said.

"Why?"

The question hung between them. Christine could see that he didn't accept that she'd come back, that she could not have come back just for him. "I couldn't let you die," she whispered, "I couldn't leave knowing I'd never see you again." She hesitated before adding, "I realized I love you, Erik." It felt weird to say it out loud, what she had barely voiced to herself, but it was right. She kept coming back to Erik, no matter what he did, because she loved him.

Erik had frozen, his grip on her hand tightening, as shocked as he'd been when she'd touched his face earlier. Christine also stared at him, wondering what effect her pronouncement would have. They both jerked around as a slight echo reached them from the lake.

Christine paled. "Erik, we have to go," she said, tugging on his hands, "They'll kill us both if they find us."

That broke him out of his shock. His eyes cleared, and one hand went instinctively to the side of his face. "There's another exit. This way," he said, almost brusquely. He shepherded her in front of him, looking protectively back over his shoulder. Christine allowed him to guide her into another room in silence, now as off-balance as he had been because of this sudden change of character. He locked the door behind them, and Christine didn't have time to look around before he had hurried her over to a velvet drape hanging on the wall. When he pushed it aside, she was confronted with a mirror. Erik reached around her to depress the bit of decorative carving that allowed the mirror to swing open, and Christine wondered inanely how many rigged mirrors Erik had in the Opera House.

Erik nudged her into the revealed tunnel and shut the mirror behind them also. Without speaking, they both froze, listening intently. More echoes reached them. The mob must be nearly in the lair if their noise could reach them through several walls. Christine shivered slightly at how narrow their escape had been. There was a rustling sound behind her, and heavy fabric dropped over her shoulders. Erik's coat. His hands followed, lightly gripping her shoulders and propelling her forward.

"Move!" Erik hissed in her ear, "They might discover this tunnel, and we can't be here if they do."

Christine balked slightly at walking in the completely dark. Erik felt her resistance and sighed. He guided her towards the side of the tunnel, and she felt him brush by her. She couldn't see him at all, except for flashes of his eyes, but evidently he could see fine. His hand quickly grasped hers, and he began to lead her fearlessly forward. They moved fast; Christine didn't know where they were going, but Erik seemed to have a destination in mind. They didn't slow until Christine was nearly gasping, both in breathlessness and fear. The dark, along with the many turns they had made, completely disoriented her. She could have been in Hell, but for the comforting feel of Erik's hand. His skin was dry, and unnaturally cool, but it was _Erik_, and she had confidence in his ability to get them out of this labyrinth.

Finally they emerged from the underground, and Christine saw with astonishment they were behind a little locked gate set back in an alley. "Where are we?" she asked, not letting go of his hand.

Erik stopped, but made no move to unlock the gate yet. "Rue Scribe," he said shortly, and Christine blinked in shock. That wasn't far from the Opera! They hadn't been underground for as long as she'd thought if they'd only come this far.

"Where are we going now?" she asked, when he made no move to elaborate.

Erik turned his back on the gate to face her now, pulling his hand free from hers. "_We_, Christine? I had thought you would change your mind and go back to your Vicomte now. Surely now that you have seen me safe, your pity doesn't need to make you go further." The dark trek had evidently given him time to regain his composure.

"No, I meant what I said, Erik," Christine insisted stubbornly. If Erik was now composed, she felt off-balance, unsure, but she tried not to let it show. "I'm coming with you."

Erik grit his teeth. "You cannot possibly love something like me, Christine," he said roughly, "I can see that now. I'm giving you the chance to be rid of me forever. Take it and go. Go and be happy with your _boy_." He almost spat the last word.

"But—"

"Why did you really come back?" he asked.

Christine stared at him. She knew that he loved her, why else would he have stayed with her all of these years, but now that she might return his feelings, he kept pushing her away. It didn't matter what she said—as soon as he had a moment to think he didn't believe her. So she didn't say anything.

Instead she kissed him. She put one hand on his shoulder, pulled herself up or him down—she couldn't really tell—and pressed her lips against his. He jerked back, and she followed, stepping closer to him. Like his hand, his lips were very dry, and unnaturally cold. She had one second to wonder if he would rebuff her once again before his arms were around her and he was kissing her back. He pulled her even closer, her hand with the mask crushed between them, the other clutching his shoulder tightly.

After a few moments, Erik pulled back, and this time Christine let him. She didn't move away from him though; she continued to lean into him for support, liking the feel of his chest moving as he gulped for breath. She noticed he made no move to push her away or let go of her either. "Christine…" he began, staring down at her.

"Don't—" she interrupted him, smiling up at him, "Just accept that I love you, Erik." His hands tightened as she said it, and she paused before continuing, "Just take me with you. We can have a life together away from here."

Erik took a deep breath and began again. "You would do that? You would come with me, not knowing where I'm going? You know the chance of being able to ever stay in one place for long is low, and I can't…you wouldn't be in society," he said in a shaky voice. His hands on her back were shaking too, and she could see tears in his eyes. At her nod he expelled a long, shuddering breath. "You are truly an angel, Christine," he murmured, leaning down to gently kiss her forehead.

* * *

Erik slowly unlocked that small gate onto the Rue Scribe and scanned the dark street. Luckily there were very few people about—he expected most would have been drawn to the commotion at the Opera House. He had made plans in case he should ever be forced from his home, but he had always hoped he'd never have to use them. Cautiously, he stepped out into the street, and felt Christine step out after him, her hand tightening in his. 

_Christine_. Erik straightened where he'd unconsciously hunched his shoulders and started to walk briskly down the street. He did not know what spirit had possessed Christine, what stray miracle had struck them that she would ever want to stay with him, but he could not find the strength to send her away a second time. Not after she had kissed him…

He spared one last glance over his shoulder at the tunnel they were leaving. He had seen the mask Christine had clutched so tightly all the way here—and doubtless he would need it if they were to get away from Paris without a commotion—but no longer would it be the Phantom's mask. He wouldn't be the Phantom anymore. He'd just be Erik, but he'd do that for Christine. He drew her hand up and kissed the back of it, inwardly warming when she blushed and smiled instead of pulling away in disgust. For Christine he'd reinvent himself, his life, his music. For Christine.

**Fin**


End file.
